


count your blessings, sugawara

by aloeverava



Series: when you fall [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anorexia, Body Dysphoria, Bulimia, Canon - Anime, Canon Compliant, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Pre-Nationals, Self-Esteem Issues, Suga is team mom, but hooo boy poor suga is in for a ride, not beta read (yet) we die like men, overall spoiler free tbh, suga angst, suga-centric - Freeform, sugawara koushi has an eating disorder (unspecified), this is mostly projection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:48:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24042343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aloeverava/pseuds/aloeverava
Summary: Boys can't have eating disorders—or so Suga thinks.
Relationships: Sawamura Daichi/Sugawara Koushi
Series: when you fall [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1902538
Comments: 77
Kudos: 443





	1. make a wish

**Author's Note:**

> trigger warning for descriptions of eating disorders ranging from vague to graphic. please read at your own discretion and stay safe.
> 
> disclaimer: i do not condone or support the various misconceptions of mental illness throughout this story. i depict them here in hopes of bringing an unfortunate facet of reality to a work of fiction, not to say that i agree with these sentiments in any way.

“Alright, good work everyone! Clean up, then you’re dismissed!”

A tired chorus of “yes coach” echoed around the gym as the volleyball players gladly gulped down their water, groaning about how grueling practice had been. Suga, as opposed to the others, quietly sipped at his bottle, frowning as he did so. He sourly thought about how his stomach wasn’t screaming in agony right now, probably because he had actually eaten lunch today. He was carefully eating when he absolutely needed to; he knew passing out during practice a second time would’ve been suspicious. Nonetheless, it was agony knowing he wasn’t in control of his body the way he wanted to be. All he knew was that his precautions, though they deterred anyone’s suspicions, were detrimental to his progress.

The feeling of water trickling down his parched throat was an immense physical relief, but it set his mind reeling a mile a minute. How much had he eaten today? Maybe if he fasted for all of tomorrow, he could afford to drink now. No, there was practice tomorrow and that would make two days without food completely, so that wasn’t an option. He groaned inwardly, just _why_ did he have to be so damn thirsty —

“Suga-kun?” The setter jerked when a large hand rested on his shoulder, looking up at Coach Ukai. “Can I have a quick word? I just have a few pointers,” Ukai looked down at him, not unkindly, but he swore he could have seen a bit of concern in his eyes. How long had Suga spaced out just now?

Loosening the vice grip he had unknowingly crushed his water bottle in, he replied, “Yes, of course! That would be great,” and followed Coach Ukai over to the net. He plastered on a pleasant face, and whatever doubts Ukai had seemed to be reassured.

Inside, though, Suga’s heart dropped, the boy wondering just how badly he had done today for Ukai to need to single him out after practice. He tried reassuring himself that this was a common occurrence; Ukai spoke in private with individual players after practice all the time. But Suga still couldn’t help the nagging feeling of self-hatred as Ukai bounced the ball between his fingertips, going over something Suga hadn’t even realized he’d done wrong that day.

The setter let out an “mhm” and nodded, copying Ukai’s motions with the ball. He tensed his fingers to put the ball in the air, biting his lip in focus, when he nearly severed his tongue with his own teeth as a very loud, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY SUGA!” boomed throughout the gym.

The boy in mention looked to the other side of the net, hands still poised for a toss in the air, as the ball _thwack, thwack, thwacked_ onto the ground. He was met with a sight that filled him with equal parts happiness and embarrassment. Hinata and Noya held a banner that had been (messily) decorated to read, “HAPpY BiRTHDAY SUGA-SAN!” The rest of the team stood behind them, everyone donning their own party hat and streamers.

Suga could only stare at his teammates, a mixture of dumbfoundedness and something odd tugging at his chest. He realized with some amusement that he had forgotten his own birthday (though he could probably rattle off every one of his teammates’ if someone asked).

It was awkwardly silent for a moment, save for the sound of the ball falling, until Kageyama grumbled, “Idiot, you said it out of sync,” to which Hinata immediately retorted with, “Well I’m not the one who can’t draw a straight line!” A loud smack on the head was heard, then Daichi’s ”really, now?” and then it was chaos amongst the team.

Everyone seemed to turn their attention to Hinata or Kageyama simultaneously, the blanched faces of the two first-years as the first scolding came a hilarious sight. At some point, the banner was dropped by Noya in favor of emphatically yelling at Kageyama, arms aflutter. Tsukishima silently scooted it out of harm’s way with his foot, shaking his head at his fellow first-years.

Suga watched, still stunned, then threw his head back and laughed. He doubled over, clutching his stomach; it bubbled up through his chest and out his mouth before he could stop it.

“You—You guys actually r-remembered?” He managed between hiccups, his chest warming at the team’s sentiment.

With a hand on Kageyama and Hinata’s head each, struggling to keep them apart, Tanaka shouted, “‘Course we did, Suga-- shit! Sorry, talkin’ all informal to a senio-- SHIT! I did it again-- OI! Will you two cut it out?!” Suga only laughed harder, taking in the sight before him. How refreshing it was to have his stomach hurt out of laughter rather than the claws of hunger for once. Suga sobered up a bit at the thought, but he was soon laughing again as he watched Asahi try (and fail) to help Tanaka separate the pair of rambunctious first-years.

“H-Hey!” Yachi suddenly piped up, and every head whipped around to hers in an instant. The first-year manager seemed to grow even more flustered at the attention; it had probably taken her a lot of courage to speak up in the first place, Suga thought. He offered her a smile when they made eye contact, a silent “go on.”

“U-Uhm, d-don’t we still have to, uh-- You know, the--” The blonde looked helplessly at Hinata, who seemed to realize something.

“Oh! Right, the--” Kageyama slapped a hand over the shorter’s mouth, suddenly. “Dumbass, it’s a surprise!”

“What’s a surprise?” Suga asked, cocking his head.

Daichi let out an exasperated sigh, grabbing Suga’s wrist. (When did he even get so close to Suga?) The setter inwardly cringed, thinking about how his arm probably felt beneath Daichi’s hand. _Oh my god, even my wrists are disgusting_ , he thought, jerking his arm away before he could think twice. _Shit, that was gonna look weird--_

“Relax, Suga-chan, we’re not going to kidnap you or anything!” Daichi smiled, and Suga breathed a quiet sigh of relief; Daichi hadn’t noticed, or at least he pretended not to. “C’mon, you’re gonna love this. Close your eyes,” The captain said, this time placing a hand on Suga’s back to guide him. Suga regarded his captain with some suspicion before he obliged and let himself be steered blindly in the direction of said surprise. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion as he recognized the familiar path to the storage closet. What the hell did they have in there? He heard small snippets of hushed conversation as the team followed after their captains.

“—sure it’ll still be good?”

“It was your job to bring the plates…”

“—of course he will, who doesn’t like vanilla?”

“Shut up, Suga-san can hear us— MMPH!”

With a sinking feeling, Suga realized what his team had probably planned. He wanted to be wrong, but what else could they have been talking about? Suga felt the urge to run as he heard the doors squeak open, squeezing his eyes closed a little tighter.

Suddenly, all his worries about the surprise flew out the window momentarily as he felt himself be gently pulled back into Daichi’s broad chest. He heard Ennoshita hiss, “Careful with the lighter, Tanaka! You’re going to set Suga-san on fire, dumbass!”

Still unable to see, Suga jumped a little when he felt the vibrato of Daichi’s laughter through his back. “You probably already know what it is, but keep your eyes closed,” The captain said into Suga’s ear, low enough so that only he could hear. Suga nodded, then almost jumped _again_ at the sensation of Daichi’s warm breath against his ear; he was unwillingly hyper aware of every point of contact between them.

“Daichi, just come and do this, will you?” Asahi’s exasperated plea broke whatever trance Suga had been in. The feeling of Daichi’s body touching his left abruptly and Suga almost opened his eyes in surprise at the chill the loss of contact sent through him.

A few moments later, several quieted cheers (followed by “SHH’s”), elicited a small smile out of Suga, despite his anxiety.

“Open your eyes, Suga.”

He blushed furiously at the sight before him, a hand going to sheepishly rub the back of his neck. A simple white cake adorned with “Happy Birthday Suga-san” iced in delicate cursive (probably done by Yachi, he thought) and lit candles spelling out his romanized name was balanced delicately on the corner of a volleyball cart.

“W-Wow, I—” But before he could say much more, Noya began a loud rendition of “Happy Birthday” in English, the rest of the team quickly following suit. Suga could only stand and blush even more; he never knew what you were supposed to do during this sort of thing. He felt an overwhelming rush of love for his teammates, followed by a stab of guilt.

Suga knew he didn’t deserve this, not when he had spent the entirety of the last few minutes thinking about escape plans and how to avoid this situation altogether. If only they knew he wasn’t only pathetic on the court, but off of it too, struggling to do something as simple as look after his own body. He couldn’t reciprocate what any of them gave in volleyball or in their personal lives, and here he was, basking in limelight he hadn’t earned. _I don’t deserve this team_ , he thought as he stared into the flickering flame on the “W” candle.

“Suga-san! Make a wish!”

Right. A wish.

 _What’s the point?_ He smiled morosely to himself as he leaned forward. _You all are everything I could ever wish for._ Suga blows out the candles, laughing a little as he struggles with the last two. No doubt someone had switched a few out for trick candles, probably one of the second-years, maybe Tanaka judging by his snickering. (“Shut it, Baldy!”)

When he finally blows them all out, the team cheers and several of the boys slap Suga roughly on the back. His smile is less forced now; the team’s atmosphere is contagious. He lets himself smile and trade jabs with his friends, the cake forgotten for a moment.

“Eighteen, huh? Explains the grey hair, Suga-kun!” Daichi ruffles his friend’s hair as he appears from behind him.

“Hmph! That should technically be Suga- _san_ to you, y’know,” He grins, playfully shoving Daichi’s shoulder. “I’m a whole half-year older than you and Asahi!”

“You sure don’t act like it,” Asahi grumbles, also having made his appearance, holding back a smile.

“What?!” Suga feigns hurt, clutching onto Daichi for support. (Is it just him, or does Daichi tense a little when he touches his chest?) “Daichi, I’ve been called immature by the youngest one of us all! What ever am I going to do?” He loudly laments, pressing a hand to his forehead.

“Suck it up, kid!” Ukai yells as he passes the trio. They all burst into laughter, Suga half mortified but laughing at his own embarrassment for the meantime. It’s only with the third-years that he can get this way; with the underclassmen, he’s the “team mom,” or senpai, or the vice-captain, all figures you look up to and treat with the utmost respect. But with Asahi and Daichi, he doesn’t have to worry about setting the right example or acting like some senpai. Sometimes he wonders if he’s worse as a role model or as a friend.

Daichi is about to say something, probably to tease Suga, but he’s interrupted when Hinata comes running up to his seniors. “Cake is cut!” He yells. “C’mon, c’mon, Suga-san! You get first slice, ’course!” The boy’s excitement seems to throw any regard for formalities out the window, but it isn’t like Suga minds.

If the situation were any different, Suga would be happy to have Hinata lead him off. Hell, if Hinata were leading him to his execution, he’d follow gladly just because of the pure _energy_ radiating off of the boy. Suga fought down his fight-or-flight urges as he let his feet carry him towards the rest of the team, who was crowded around a fold-out table when the butchered cake and various plastic utensils lay. God, how was he going to get out of this? Just the thought of eating made him want to gag. Speaking of gagging, Suga realizes he only has two choices here. 1) Somehow escape and avoid eating altogether, though coming up with an excuse that didn’t raise everyone’s suspicions would be tough. Or 2) Eat the cake and throw it back up. The second was less desirable, as Suga had never called himself a “vomiter,” as they say. He had tried it once; it wasn’t for him. But the second option was much more plausible, he realized, as someone shoved a plate into his hands.

He looked down at his hands, his head spinning with the sheer amount of calories that must have been in his thing. The sugar, butter, flour, eggs— altogether, even for just one slice, that had to be at least three hundred calories. The thought of putting all of that into his body made him cringe. He repressed his disgust, though, as he saw Yachi watching him, probably gauging his reaction, out of the corner of his eye. He realized a few of the others were also watching him expectantly. Mechnically, he raised a bite to his lips. Chewed, then chewed some more, relishing the flavor in spite of himself. God, he wanted to cry. He swallowed.

“Really good,” He smiled and said, loud enough for Yachi to hear. The attention was temporarily turned away from him and he breathed a little sigh of relief. He couldn’t help the tears that pricked at his eyes, though, as he took another bite. And another. And another. He wanted to scream as he enjoyed nearly half of the slice.

“Suga, you alright?”

No, he wasn’t. He was anything but alright. The cake seemed to rest in the pit of his stomach like a pile of rocks. He hated it. He didn’t know what was in the cake, he didn’t know the exact number of calories he had just consumed, he didn’t know how many sit-ups he would need to do tonight just to be able to go to sleep.

“Y-Yeah, I just, uh-- Think I feel a cramp coming on, y’know? I’m gonna run to the club room to grab a few salonpas. Hold onto this for me, will you?” Suga knew his excuse only had about a thirty percent chance of actually being believed, but he couldn’t do it, he had to leave.

Not waiting for Daichi’s response, he all but threw the plate at Daichi and slipped out the side door. He counted twenty long steps before he let himself go, fingers tearing into his hair and eyes streaming. He was so fucking _pathetic_ , losing it over a slice of cake like this. His fingers fumbled with the simple lock to the club room door; he hadn’t been lying about visiting the club room for something.

When he finally managed the door, he all but fell inside, making straight for his bag. He didn’t bother to close the door behind him or even turn on the lights, he knew he’d be quick. The moonlight spilling through the doorway and windows provided just enough visibility as Suga searched through his bag with a fervent desperation. “C’mon, c’mon... I know it was in here, where did I put it?”Nearly bursting into another round of tears once he found it, he turned to leave— only to run almost face first into Daichi.

“DAICHI! Holy shit, don’t sneak up on me like that,” He breathed, the swear escaping his lips reflexively as he tried to maneuver around his captain to the still open doorway. Daichi had other plans, though, and quickly shut it, then flicked on the lights.

“Koushi,” He said. In the light of the fluorescents, Suga could see Daichi’s furrowed brow and the tight line of his lips. It was a fusion of his “angry captain” face and his “what the fuck is going on” face, which meant concern. His expression combined with the use of Suga’s given name gave him a feeling similar to something of a cornered animal. Suga gulped. Just how much had he figured out?

“Daichi, I-I- we should get back, don’t you think—” He stared up at the brunette, poorly masked nervousness written all over his face.

“It’s only been a few minutes. I came looking for you because I was worried.” Daichi quickly fired back.

The silver-haired boy let out a nervous laugh, one he hoped came off as more awkward than anxious. “That’s nice of you, Daichi, but what would you be worried for?”

The lines on Daichi’s face only seemed to deepen at this. Suddenly, his gaze flicked downwards. “Suga, what’s in your pocket?” He asked, voice dangerously low.

“N-Nothing, Daichi, please just--” Suga stopped mid sentence as Daichi gripped his wrist. He hadn’t realized how physically close they were; Daich barely had to reach out to touch Suga. They were close now, so close their noses were almost touching. _Too close_ , something in the back of his mind sounded. The proximity wasn’t helping his racing heart; if anything it sped the _thump-thump_ in his ears up even more.

“Please,” Daichi whispered, his voice far more vulnerable than he looked. “Please be honest with me, Koushi,”

He gulped again at the use of his first name, scrambling for a lie. Should he just tell him? It wouldn’t be all that hard to justify the contents of his pocket if he tried, right? Plenty of people kept them in their bags— but why would Suga run from his own birthday celebration to get his? There was no way to explain this except to tell Daichi the ugly and embarrassing truth.

As this conclusion dawned on him, Suga could only open and close his mouth in fear that somehow, Daichi would make the connection on his own, or worse, already knew. However, all Suga’s silence seemed to do was further Daichi’s doubts. He gripped his wrist impossibly tighter, pulling him in impossibly closer.

“Koushi, are you using?” His voice broke on the last syllable, hurt shining in his eyes.

 _“What?”_ A dizzying cocktail of relief and confusion flooded Suga’s senses momentarily. “Using” was nowhere on the list of taboo words for whatever it was Suga did; he had never wanted to put a name to it, thinking it never needed one. So there was good news. Daichi didn’t know Suga had just planned on emptying the contents of his stomach into a toilet. He almost wanted to laugh at the incredulity of the whole situation.

“Wait, what do you mean— holy _shit_ , Daichi, you think I’m some sort of junkie?”

And then it clicked for Suga. He wanted to practically melt in relief, but he quickly cursed himself, realizing “junkie” was the wrong word to use, especially in conversation with someone whose older sister was constantly in and out of rehab. Elation forgotten, he regretted his word choice immediately, seeing a brief flicker of hurt in his friend’s eyes.

“Shit, Daichi, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—” There he went again, swearing for the third time that night.

“This isn’t about me or my sister, Suga.” Daichi only quipped, cutting his friend off yet again. Much to Suga’s dismay, this conversation was only going to go where Daichi wanted it to.

Suga finally stepped back, putting some distance between them. His breathing relaxed minutely, making it easier to convince himself he had this under control. He again resisted the urge to smile out of pure elation.

“Daichi,” He shook his head. “I’m not on anything,” And this time he let himself smile just a little, hoping it looked reassuring rather than ludicrous.

The other seemed to falter a bit. They knew each other better than themselves, and Daichi could sense the other’s sincerity. For several long seconds, the boys only held each other’s gaze, daring the other to break first.

Daichi finally did so, sighing as his eyes flicked once more down to his jacket pocket. “Fine then. Show me your arms.”

Suga silently obeyed, pushing the elastic of his team jacket to his elbows. He held them flat out, palms up, two smooth white plains under the artificial lighting of the room. Suga met Daichi’s eyes and quirked an eyebrow as if to say, “See?”

Daichi seemed to stare for a moment, unbelieving. Suga’s heart hammered in his chest.

Finally, the captain sighed. “... I’m sorry, Koushi.”

Suga’s grin only split wider, clapping his friend’s shoulder as he made his way to the door. His whole body relaxed as he could finally make his way out, path unobstructed.

“Well then, let’s get back to practice, Daichi,”

“Wait!” Suga turned around to look at the other, hand still on the door. _What now?_ He almost groaned to himself. Daichi was rummaging around in his own bag, pulling out a small rectangle wrapped in blue ribbon. _Oh._

“Daichi, you really shouldn’t have!” He chided, waving his free arm at him, flustered.

“If it makes you feel any better, it’s technically from the whole team,” The younger said, lightly shoving the package into Suga’s chest. “Just take it, man,”

Suga realized it hadn’t really felt like his birthday at all today. At least, not until now. He wondered if he was being selfish or materialistic— did he really need to receive gifts for it to feel like a birthday? No, he realized. He’d been so wrapped up in his anxiety in the gym, feeling like a cornered animal for the bigger part of the experience. But with just him and Daichi in the room, and the tension between them dissolved, he felt a watery smile creep onto his face.

“Thanks, Daichi.”

He took the gift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi hello ava from wayyy in the future here!! i just marked this story as complete, and i felt the need to leave this note here right after. first off, i apologize for the subpar writing lol. this story is what first got me into writing at the beginning of quarantine, and i definitely think my writing style has improved + changed drastically since then, but that being said,,, please keep in mind that this is one of the first things i had written in years.
> 
> ((in the process of editing as of 8/30/20!))
> 
> anyways,,, thanks for taking a sec to read that :) enjoy.


	2. water weight

The box of leftover cake in his arms felt like it weighed three tons as Suga walked home. He had just bid Daichi farewell at the intersection they regularly parted at, and now it was just him and the wretched box. He faded in and out of sight as he passed under the streetlights. His pale hair reflected the flickering lights, eerily producing the illusion of a ghost.

Suga sighed, momentarily shifting the box’s weight to one arm. He used his freed hand to pull the toothbrush out from his jacket pocket. It was zipped up in a plastic bag along with a miniature tube of toothpaste; he almost laughs when he remembers how terrified he’d felt when Daichi asked to see it.

Suga remembers forming the habit of bringing basic hygiene products with him to volleyball practice in his first year. His motherly attitude got Daichi and Asahi to do the same, teasing them about their bad breath after morning practice. (“I slept in, so I didn’t have time, okay?! Not my fault coach wants us here at six in the morning," Asahi had defended.) But now, the streetlights’ lighting glares off the plastic, looking sinister, as if it knew about his earlier intentions.

He gripped the offending object tightly, refusing to look at it as he blindly shoved it into one of the outer pockets of his bag. He exhaled a sigh of relief once he had stowed it away.

The mere fact that he had planned to use a toothbrush to make himself puke like some teenage girl made him embarrassed of himself. He wouldn’t ever again think of stooping to those levels, the setter decided. He was eighteen for crying out loud, an adult! Suga would never be so irresponsible with his health. If anything, what he was doing _was_ responsible; he had a problem, and he was taking the initiative to find a solution.

What Suga was doing was different. It was safe. He was trying to be the best version of himself, and he would do that by eating less. It wasn’t like he was... what was it called? _Bulimic,_ he remembers, recalling the word he overheard from his classmates’ gossiping. _But if she’s bulimic, why isn’t she skinny?_ they had whispered. _Dunno. Kind of sad, if you ask me._

Later that day he had typed “eating disorders” into a search engine. He read up on how victims spiraled and lost weight dramatically, and for a moment, he saw himself in the forums and articles. But as he lay in bed that day, he decided that no, he definitely couldn’t have some stupid eating disorder. People with eating disorders weren’t in control of themselves and were delusional about how they looked. Suga wasn’t either of those.

But most of all, they were skinny. He wasn’t skinny; he was fat and disgusting and Suga obsessing over— no, _having control_ over food was how he would fix that. But he was in control. In control of what he ate, when he ate, how he ate. He couldn’t determine the outcomes of volleyball games or test scores, but this, his body, was the one thing he should be able to decide about by himself.

Control, he repeated to himself. Control, control, control, he repeated the word like a mantra. He turned the word over and over in his head until it sounded funny, until it was just two syllables put together.

The box of cake in his arms seemed to sneer at him. _Sure you are._

“I’m in control,” Suga whispered. He began to wonder who he was trying to convince.

* * *

Once he got home, Suga reaffirmed his beliefs by making himself do sit-ups as he studied for his calculus test, notebook propped up against his thighs so he could review formulas in between reps. The Sugawara household was quiet, the four younger siblings fast asleep and Sugawara-san still at work.

When the eldest brother hears his father come home, he quickly closes the notebook, all but leaping under his duvet. He hurriedly darts a hand out from under the blanket to flick the lamp on his nightstand off as the sound of footsteps approaches.

“Koushi?” His father softly calls, pushing open his door. “It was a nice thing your teammates did, that cake,” he said as he stepped inside. His voice sounded weary, probably from the twelve-hour shifts he’d been picking up at the hospital; providing for five children was no easy feat. Voice low and tired, he didn’t seem to even mind whether or not his son was listening. “I’m really sorry I couldn’t get you anything, Koushi. You know how money is right now... Anyways, hope you got your share of it, ‘cause the kids will probably have...” He paused, trying and failing to suppress a yawn. “...demolished it... by tomorrow,” He finished, dropping onto the edge of the boy’s bed. A beat of silence passed, Koushi focusing on keeping his breaths deep and even.

He feels awful continuing to fake sleep, but he really didn’t want to talk to his father about the damned box sitting in the fridge. Another moment of silence seemed to convince Sugawara-san; Koushi felt a weight leave his bed.

“Long day, huh? Get some rest, then,” Sugawara-san says, barely above a whisper. Koushi hears the sound of shuffling feet on the carpet. Just when he thinks his father’s left, a gentle kiss is pressed to his forehead.

“Happy birthday, kid.”

Suga’s father closes the door behind him, but nonetheless, a muffled, “Daddy’s home!” sounded through the door. (“Shh, Niko-chan, you’ll wake up all your siblings!”)

Suga smiles, his eyes still closed.

He doesn’t sleep yet, though. He knows his body won’t let him, not until he’s burnt every calorie of that cake. Koushi opens his eyes to shove his abandoned school work aside so he can sit down on the space next to his bed. Sighing, he wonders how many more reps it will take to ease the creeping fear of gaining weight. Knees bent, he lays back only for his head to hit an unfamiliar surface. _What the hell?_

Suga’s hand fumbles around in the dark for the offending surface until he sighs, reaching up to turn his bedside lamp on. Oh.

He had completely forgotten about Daichi’s gift when he got home; the contents of his stomach had completely taken over his thoughts. Gingerly, he pulls the ribbon undone. The parcel, a rectangular prism that fit neatly into his palm, is wrapped in several layers of newspaper and tape underneath the pale blue bow. Suga smiles as he imagines his teammates, probably the underclassmen, huddled around the gift and arguing over how to conceal its contents. It takes him a few tries, but he manages to find a loose corner and pull the wrapping off.

The first thing he notices is the note. It’s crudely done, fifteen signatures crammed under a “Happy Birthday, Sugawara!” written in Yachi’s scrawling print, all on a folded up sheet of notebook paper. He feels an overwhelming sense of appreciation for his team, and he hasn’t even gotten past the card. He almost laughs at himself; Asahi’s the sentimental one, not him, he thinks.

The gift itself is encased in yet another layer, this time of white tissue paper. The object is flatter than he initially thought, resembling the shape of a— _Oh, no, he didn’t_ , Suga thinks. He all but tears the paper away, newfound excitement fueling his movements.

Though the gift is from the whole team, the setter’s mind immediately goes straight to Daichi. Daichi, who saw Suga pause briefly in front of a display at the mall last week. Daichi, who insisted Suga get it if he liked it, price be damned. Daichi, who had snapped a picture of it when Suga insisted he didn’t have enough money on him. “Just in case,” He had said.

Daichi, who had bought him that fucking wallet for his birthday.

“Damn you,” Suga whisper-laughs. He turns the wallet over in his hands, reminded of why he had stopped to stare at the display in the first place. Not only did the sign advertise the wallet as cruelty-free, being made from pleather (Suga strictly refused to buy or wear anything made from animal leather), but the light brown and black checkered pattern was simplistic yet sophisticated-looking. Suga was also looking to break the habit of shoving his money into various pockets of his person; he had to obtain a wallet eventually.

However, it was at least 14,000 yen (~130 USD), so Suga had moved on from the shop window because he couldn’t possibly entertain the idea of buying something so expensive. _It’s technically from the whole team,_ Daichi had said to him. Yet Suga still felt a pang of guilt; they shouldn’t have spent so much on him. He can feel the same feelings from earlier in the day begin to return. He’s undeserving. A leech. A burden to the team. Ungrateful, unable to give his thanks. _No, no, no_ , he thinks.

It isn’t that he’s contradicting his inner monologue— Suga knows what he’s thinking is true and he hates it. But he can’t let himself go down this rabbit hole, or else no amount of exercise will let him sleep.

Sighing, he puts the gift on his nightstand and lays down. For a moment, he is completely still. The boy watches the sliver of moonlight from his window and listens to the clock tick. He counts twenty seconds before he begins curling his torso, arms folded against his chest. He focuses on keeping count of how many sit-ups he’s done rather than the self-deprecating thoughts; he absently wonders when he’ll sleep, if ever.

* * *

The next morning, Suga’s abdominal muscles are sore along with his tailbone, which is probably bruised again. He relishes the pain as he stands in front of his full-length mirror, shirtless. 

He sighs, pinching the flesh of his sides. _Disgusting,_ he thinks. He can’t help but be disappointed, even a little frustrated with himself. He’s been at this for almost a month now, counting calories and skipping meals whenever possible. On days he had practice, which was almost the entire week, he would consume 1,200 at _most_. He couldn’t let his performance be affected by his habits, a lesson he learned the hard way when he fainted last week. He had played it off as forgetting to eat due to his overly dedicated study habits; everyone believed him. So he spent hours on the internet to determine that 1,200 was his minimum with the amount of exercise he did. Every bite of food, under the 1,200 or not, though, tasted like failure.

When the team didn’t hold practice, Suga fasted as best he could. He gained some sort of euphoric feeling from running on empty that reassured him he was doing his best to lose weight.

Today he supposes he should water fast, even if there is practice. One day wouldn’t hurt, and if anyone noticed, a singular occurrence wouldn’t raise their suspicions. _Suspicions of what?_ He chides himself. There wasn’t anything to hide. This was an effort at self-improvement, and if anything, people should have been happy for him.

Suga glares at the boy in the mirror once more before turning away.

He takes his time so that he can leave for school at the last minute, forgoing breakfast and giving his family a hurried “good morning” as he runs out the door.

Suga pretends not to hear when his father shouts after him asking if he’s eaten.

* * *

His headache appears around two in the afternoon and follows him around for the rest of the day. Suga manages to ignore the pain in his head for the most part, instead choosing to focus on the gnawing sensation of hunger that stabs at his abdomen periodically. But despite his physical discomfort, or maybe because of it, Suga has never been in a better mood. Each sensation is a testament to his dedication; he finds himself smiling brightly through his body’s cries for food.

Despite the fact that water doesn’t have any caloric content whatsoever, which Suga knows, he makes sure to drink no more than two bottles— the second one only because he has practice today. The feeling of water on an empty stomach is oddly reassuring because it’s at least better than solid food. But even though he knows there’s technically no harm done, he can’t help the feeling of self-loathing that comes with putting anything into his body.

The floating sensation of running on empty lasts until the latter half of after school practice. He feels himself begin to crash, the sluggishness of his movements becoming harder to fight off.

“Nice receive!” Ennoshita yells as the ball bounces off of Tanaka’s arms. Suga watches it arc through the air, positioning himself to set. He surveys the other side’s defense formation, his own players, and their abilities to make a split-second decision. Tskukishima is their biggest threat now that he’s been rotated to the front row, so Suga decides on Asahi, who is their best bet in this situation. He calls out the ace’s name, and a second later, a resounding _WHAM_ echoes throughout the gym.

“Good game, guys! Everyone start cleaning, but make sure to listen for your name!” Coach Ukai directs.

“Wait, huh?” Hinata says, voicing Suga’s thoughts.

“Measurements, dumbass! Did you really forget?” Kageyama yells in reply.

“Wait, like jump height? I thought we already did that,”

“No, you idiot. Height and weight. Coach said we’re doing them now so that the school doesn’t make us get physicals again,” Kageyama explains.

“Huh? I don’t remember getting a physical...”

“Idiot.”

“Shut up, Bakageyama!”

“Who doesn’t remem-”

“Oi! Stop fighting and clean up!”

“Y-Yes, Noya-senpai!”

“Aw, shucks-”

If it were any other day, Suga would have laughed at his underclassmen’s antics. But his worst fears were coming true, throwing his brain into panic mode. He had forgotten, or rather, purposefully ignored, the team’s scheduled height and weight check. Coach Ukai had let them know weeks beforehand, so in Suga’s mind, he still had days to come up with a way to escape them, or at the very least, mentally brace himself. He had done neither of those, though, and cursed his choice to procrastinate. What the hell was he going to do?

The very thought of stepping onto a scale, especially in front of fifteen other people, made his heart drop into his stomach like a pound of lead.

“Suga-san, you look a little pale, are you alright?”

The boy in question snaps out his thoughts and perks up immediately. “Yes, of course, Ennoshita-kun! Probably just overworked myself,” He replies. The white lie comes so easily and Ennoshita believes it so quickly that he feels a little bad.

“Ah, well if that’s the case, why don’t you go get some water? I can get this with Tanaka-kun,” The second-year replies, gesturing to the pole between them.

“No, no that’s not neces-”

“Baldy, get your ass over here!” Despite his guilt about lying to Ennoshita to begin with, Suga can’t help but choke back a laugh at how drastically Ennoshita’s tone changes. Before Suga can protest receiving his help, Tanaka is hoisting the end of the pole out of his hands.

“Leave it to me, Suga-san!” He winks. And just like that, Suga is empty-handed. For a moment, he watches the two bicker as they carry the equipment across the gym. Sighing, he goes over to the bench and picks up his water bottle, but doesn’t drink. He had to be as light as possible when it was his turn. Suga’s stomach did another unpleasant somersault as he envisioned Coach Ukai’s disgusted response at his weight.

A loud laugh from Tanaka roars across the gym. Maybe Ennoshita had been so insistent on having Tanaka help because he simply preferred his company over Suga’s. It wasn’t an unreasonable assumption. Suga was a third-year and Ennoshita a second-year; they just didn’t have the same bond. Still. Suga couldn’t chase away the feeling of being replaced. It was all too familiar, especially when it came to volleyball, he thought, eyes landing on Kageyama.

There was no way he’d ever compare to the prodigy; Suga had accepted this fact long ago. It wasn’t all that hard, really. Kageyama being the main setter was best for the team, and Suga wanted what was best for the team. He had never allowed himself to feel bitter about the replacement, telling himself that his personal desire to want to play should never usurp the best interests of everyone else. Suga’s pity party was a decidedly private affair.

In the midst of these thoughts, Suga hadn’t realized he’d abandoned his water for cleaning up the rest of the equipment with his tea; force of habit had guided his body on autopilot while his mind was elsewhere. At some point, Suga had started wheeling the volleyball cart around the gym with Daichi, picking up stray balls.

“You looked pensive,” The captain muses.

“Mhm,” He replies. It isn’t meant to be rude; he just senses that Daichi has more to say. He takes a second to compose his thoughts before continuing.

“I’m sorry about yesterday, Suga. I really am. You know I’m just paranoid about these things, especially since my sister-- but I know that’s not an excuse, still, and it was wrong of me to assume. But anyways,” He sighs, pausing to gauge Suga’s reaction. He only nods in understanding, indicating that the other finish. “Anyways- I mean, you’d tell me if something was up, right?”

Suga doesn’t respond immediately, instead choosing to bend down to pick up another volleyball so he doesn’t have to meet Daichi’s eyes. He hates lying to Daichi; this won’t be pleasant. When he stands back up, Daichi doesn’t seem to have noticed, too wrapped up in his own worries.

“I just- Suga, you’re worrying me, y’know? Maybe I’m just being stupid, ‘cause I asked Asahi and he said he didn’t notice anything, but something is bothering you, right?” Suga tries not to squirm under Daichi’s concerned gaze; it’s as if he can see right through him. Maybe he should just spill everything. The ever-running calorie calculator in his head, the feeling of helplessness, the crushing fear knowledge that he was too fat and ugly to be worth anyone’s time. No, why should he put that burden on them? They’d only make a big deal out of something trivial, worrying themselves for naught. He wasn’t going to drag his friends down with him when he was already so undeserving of their support. And now he had really done it. He couldn’t even manage to keep up appearances because his pitiful state was just that painstakingly obvious.

“Daichi...” He wants to laugh, to cry, to find the right words. He wants it all to just go away. “I don’t understand.”

“Huh?”

“I don’t understand,” Suga repeats. “What- I mean, am I doing something _wrong_ to worry you? Have I been that shitty during practice?”

“What? Of course n-”

“Please, Daichi, if you were going to tell me that, you could have at least been upfront about it,” He whispers.

“Suga, no, I mean, have you seen yourself in the mirror lately?”

He stumbles away from the cart, the words feeling like a physical blow to his gut. So Daichi had finally voiced everyone’s disgust towards his appearance.

“Wow,” he breathes. “Well, it was about time.” Suga knows this has been long coming, but it doesn’t change the twisting feeling in his chest. God, if only it’d been someone else on the team, maybe it would have hurt less. But from Daichi, his best friend? It was rubbing salt onto his deep, aching wound.

“No, that’s not what I meant! I mean, just look at you-!”

“Sawamura-kun!” Takeda-san’s voice interrupts. The teacher beckons for Daichi to come over to where Kiyoko stands next to a scale and Yachi stands on a stepstool with a meter stick in hand. Suga is thankful for the intervention, but Daichi is clearly not judging by the look on his face. For a moment, Suga is afraid Daichi will do the one thing he’s never done before - disobey a teacher. Daichi grimaces, but obliges and stalks over to the scale on the other side of the gym. However, he also grabs Suga’s bicep, pulling him along with him.

“What-”

“You’re next, anyways. Alphabetical order. Sawamura, sugawara.” Daichi’s voice is cold, clipped, and straight to the point. Suga doesn’t know what, or even if, he’s planning something, and he doesn’t like it.

“Oh. Right. Um, thanks. I think.” Suga wants to cringe at the awkwardness in his voice. He’s never had to talk to Daichi like this, not since they had first met as freshmen on the team.

“Oh, perfect, you’re here too, Suga-kun! This will make things faster, then.” Takeda-san beams. Suga manages to return the smile in half earnest.

His heart is beating faster by the second, though, as he watches Daichi step onto the scale. That is, he watches Daichi’s feet step onto the scale; he thinks if he looks up, Daichi’s stare will make him outwardly panic, cry, or both. His anxiety only worsens as the seconds tick by. By now, his heart is hammering so loud, everyone must be able to hear it. His palms are sweaty and all he can think about is escaping, but his brain short circuits when it tries to come up with a half-decent reason to leave. He could always just book it, he considers. Run and never look back. He wouldn’t have to step onto that scale, put those mortifying numbers on display. But the rational part of him knows they’ll just make him do it later anyways, but with their suspicions raised.

“Seventy kilograms even,” Takeda-san says, which Kiyoko transcribes onto her clipboard. _Of course he can be over sixty-five kilograms and still look that good_ , Suga thinks. Daichi is all chiseled muscle, unlike his own pathetic, flabby figure. “Okay, now for height. Keep your shoes off, and meanwhile, Suga-kun, you can go ahead and-”

Takeda-san is cut off by a deafening yell as a volleyball, followed by Karasuno’s libero, come crashing into Yachi and Kiyoko, respectively. Daichi manages to pull Yachi out of harm’s way in the nick of time, but Kiyoko, Suga, and Takeda-san aren’t as lucky. It all happens so fast, though, that Suga doesn’t comprehend the impact until a few moments later.

He gingerly untangles himself from Takeda-san and Kiyoko, neither of which seem visibly injured. He’s glad, but the throbbing sensation in his arm indicates that it probably took the most weight when he fell.

“Heh. Oops. Sorry about your arm, Suga-san... Was really tryna save that ball, y’know?” Noya says, sticking out a hand to help him up. Suga can stand on his own, but he uses his free hand to accept his help anyways.

“I’m fine, don’t worry about it.” He says honestly, waving off Noya’s concerns. "Kiyoko-chan, Takeda-san, are you two okay?” Suga looks over to see the manager and teacher hunched over the scale together.

Kiyoko directs her attention away from the scale for a moment to pointedly look at Noya, who stands sheepishly under her gaze. “Yes, we’re fine, thank you Suga-kun. The scale is broken though, the impact from the ball and- I mean, the impact from the ball probably broke the pressure sensor,” She explains. Noya immediately launches into a flurry of apologies, kneeling at her feet. The rest of the team has gathered around now to see what all the commotion is about. He catches various snippets of conversation - Tanaka making fun of Noya, Hinata and Kageyama arguing over who threw the ball, and a few people asking if he’s alright. But all Suga can hear in his head are the words “broken” and “scale.” In the same sentence. He was saved. He wanted to cry in relief, but instead, he tells Asahi that yes, he’s fine. As long as he didn’t have to step onto that scale, he’d be fine.

* * *

Suga doesn’t speak to Daichi, plain and simple. Doesn’t talk to him in the club room or on the walk to their intersection. Just like that. It feels wrong, but he doesn’t know how they’re supposed to act when they’re fighting. Wait- they _were_ fighting, right? He wasn’t sure, but he knew he couldn’t afford to continue the conversation they’d had after practice. He and Daichi both seemed to have reached this understanding, even if they weren’t speaking to each other. Know a person long enough, and things like that happened.

So when Suga’s phone vibrates at eleven at night, he ignores it. If it isn’t Daichi, he can’t be bothered at this hour. He was so sleepy. And even if it was Daichi, he didn’t have the energy for another possible confrontation. Today had drained him physically and emotionally as is.

His phone buzzes again. Suga buries his head deeper into his pillow. He’s about to fall asleep when it buzzes yet _again,_ this time two times in a row. Fuck it, he thinks and grabs for the offending device. To his surprise, it isn’t Daichi.

_Hey Suga-san srry about your arm!!!! hope it's ok_

**[Nishinoya Y.]** 23:02

_I think we need to talk_

**[Nishinoya Y.}** 23:05

_geez that sounded so ominous!! lmap can we just meet at school this wknd?_

**[Nishinoya Y.]** 23:11

_lmao*_

**[Nishinoya Y.]** 23:11

What the fuck?


	3. i'm trying to say "sorry"

Suga was awake with curiosity now. He squinted at the screen, adjusting to the light, then tapped out a reply.

_ Sure, but why? _

**[Sugawara K.]** 23:12

_ Also, where and when? _

**[Sugawara K.]** 23:12

He was reminded of why he hated texting as he drummed his fingers on the mattress, waiting for a reply. Noya replied nearly ten minutes later, when Suga’s eyelids had begun to grow heavy once again.

_ Uhhh is 10 ok _

**[Nishinoya Y.]** 23:21

_ alskdcnldk sike my sis has a dentist appt _

**[Nishinoya Y.]** 23:21

_ Yeah, that’s fine! _

**[Sugawara K.]** 23:21

_ Oh _

**[Sugawara K.]** 23:22

_ How about 12 _

**[Nishinoya Y.]** 23:22

_ also scratch that part abt meeting @ school lol _

**[Nishinoya Y.]** 23:22

_ meet me @ sakanoshita? _

**[Nishinoya Y.]** 23:22

_ Works for me! I’ll be there :) _

**[Sugawara K.]** 23:22

_ okiee _

**[Nishinoya Y.]** 23:22

_ It’s late! Get some sleep, Noya _

**[Sugawara K.]** 23:23

_ On it :D gnnnnnnn suga-san _

**[Nishinoya Y.]** 23:25

Goodnight, Noya :-)

[Sugawara K.] 23:25

Suga frowned, realizing Noya hadn’t said why he wanted to meet in the first place. He typed up and deleted several follow-up texts before setting his phone back onto his nightstand with a sigh. It’d be awkward to bring it up since he’d already said goodnight, and he was too tired to construct another message, much less wait for another reply. It was fine, he thought. He could always ask tomorrow. Suga let sleep finally wash over him.

* * *

Suga wasn’t very surprised when he didn’t find Daichi waiting for him in front of Sakanoshita the next morning, but it still stung. He fought to keep himself from replaying their fight—or whatever it had been—in his head the entire walk to school.

_ “ _ _ Have you seen yourself in the mirror lately?” _

_ “Just look at you!” _

Suga frowns at his reflection in a puddle as he hops onto the sidewalk to avoid it. Even though he only caught a glimpse of himself, he knows he looks bad. He barely slept, having spent the larger part of the night pacing his room and doing sit-ups until it hurt to breathe. He was exhausted, but sleep wasn’t an option. The moment his head hit the pillow, his thoughts became intrusive and played like a broken record as he tried to fall asleep. Now his brain was doing just that as he walked to school; clearly, the jolt of energy this morning cold shower had provided was already wearing off.

Normally, Daich and Suga would walk in a comfortable silence to school, neither of them awake enough to talk but appreciative of the other’s presence. Now, without Daichi in step next to him, the silence was crushing. It amplified the thoughts in his head tenfold, making the entire journey agony.

Finally arriving at school wasn’t much better, though. On a typical day, the captains would make their way to the club room together, discussing what tests Daichi had today or what strategies Suga wanted to try out during practice. Sometimes it was as trivial as making fun of each other’s bedheads, but nonetheless, it was conversation, the prospect of volleyball awakening them both.

Today, though, Suga’s feet seemed to grow heavier as he climbed the steps to the club room. He pulled out his key, only to see Daichi already unlocking the door and stepping inside.

At the sight of him, Suga’s chest clenched. He wanted to go in there and apologize just as much as he wanted to run the hell away. He considered the latter, thinking that it wouldn’t be hard since Daichi hadn’t seen him yet. He could walk straight back home, fake a cough, and fool his parents easily enough. If he did do that, though, he’d just be running away from his problems like some coward.  _ Isn’t that what you are, though? A coward. _

_ Yeah, I am.  _ Suga quietly laughed to himself.  _ But this coward is only going to drag his team down even more if he skips morning practice. _

With a sigh, Suga trudged the rest of the way to the club room door. On the other side of the door, Daichi was changing. He was probably shirtless, he found himself thinking. It wasn’t like it’d be strange or awkward for him to walk in now, but he found himself mildly embarrassed at the thought for some reason. Suga always came to school in his practice clothes to avoid changing in front of his teammates, so all he had to do was walk in and put up his bag.

But would it be awkward trying to talk to him if only Daichi was changing? It never was before, Daichi having accepted Suga’s habit as a norm, but after yesterday’s conversation—

Suga’s thoughts were interrupted as he heard something  _ thump _ on the other side of the door. Suga opened the door on instinct, his concern for the captain’s wellbeing completely shoving aside his nerves.

To his relief, Daichi seemed fine. He only knocked over his bag, judging by the sight of various pieces of schoolwork scattered across the floor. To Suga’s embarrassment, though, he’d caught his best friend in a rather compromising position.

Suga’s face flushed as he took in Daichi, clad in just his boxers, bent over picking up his bag. Luckily, Daichi wasn’t facing him, so he couldn’t see the way Suga flushed and struggled to quickly compose himself.  _ Oh my god, get a hold of yourself, it isn’t like you’ve never seen him half-naked,  _ Suga scolds himself. Then he shakes his head, because his mind had begun to conjure every memory he had of Daichi without clothes on, which did nothing to help his conscience as he stared at the sight before him.

Daichi must not have heard the door open, because he hasn’t looked up. Suga suppresses the blush rising to his cheeks once more, feeling like some pervert. He awkwardly clears his throat, stepping into the room before he has to psyche himself up again.

“Who knew our captain was a klutz, eh?” The teasing words come out before Suga can stop them, and he almost cringes at himself. Daichi whirls on him, bewildered, a sheaf of notebook paper in his hands. The setter can’t help but grin at the look on Daichi’s face..

“Oh, it’s just you,” The captain breathed, clutching his chest.

“Yeah,” Suga shakily laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. What now?

They hold each other’s gaze for a moment, as if suddenly remembering the words they exchanged the day before. Suga breaks eye contact first, leaning down to help collect Daichi’s strewn papers, if only so that he doesn't have to endure the other’s imploring stare. Daichi soon follows suit, and they don’t speak for an entire thirty six seconds. (Suga counts.) The sound of shuffling paper seems to grow louder as each second ticks by. Suga hands Daichi his reorganized binder and sits on the floor heavily, leaning against the lockers. Daichi shoves the rest of his schoolwork into this bag, then settles himself directly in front of Suga. They both sit cross-legged, their knees almost brushing. Suga wrings his hands, then, noticing the other eyeing him, stops self-consciously.

“So,” he said, preparing to rip the metaphorical bandaid off. “I overrea—”

“I’m sorry—”

Both their heads jerk up, almost concussing each other in the process. They stare at each other, waiting for one to speak.

“You go first,” They say simultaneously. If it weren’t for the tension in the air, Suga would have laughed.

Daichi sighs, running a hand through his cropped hair. After a moment of seeming to decide his words carefully, he speaks, looking Suga in the eye. The latter squirms, but he knows he couldn’t tear his gaze away if he tried.

“I’m sorry what I said offended you yesterday— Wait, that sounds so  _ asshole _ -ish,” Daichi lets out a noise of frustration, pinching the bridge of his nose.

_ You’re not an asshole, stupid, _ Suga wants to tell him. Instead, he only purses his lips, waiting for him to go on. Daichi was speaking too stiffly, too formally; Suga knows the other is only struggling to say what he means.

“I don’t know why, but I know what I said upset you,” he finally breathes. “And I really wish I knew why, I really do. I regret it so much and I just wish I could take it back. I-I never wanted to hurt you and—” He sighs. Suga opens his mouth to interrupt, but stops once Daichi continues. “And it’s not just that, you know. I mean, I know something’s up, but you just won’t tell me, and—again— I don’t know why.” He pauses, seeming to draw in air for the first time in minutes. “But I really don’t like seeing you like this, Suga. It’s not just me either. I can tell the team knows something is wrong too, and I want to tell everyone that I’ve got it, that it’s going to be okay—but I can’t if I can’t even help you myself. You’re— you’re scaring me, Suga.”

Daichi’s shoulders seem to droop once the words make their way out.

Suga wants to scream in frustration. He isn’t mad at him, though. He’s furious with himself— namely, himself and his fucking inability to not be a burden. He sighs, taking a second to compose his thoughts, picking out the words he wants Daichi to hear.

“If anyone should be apologizing, it’s me. I know that recently I haven’t been helping the team all that much—” He sees Daichi start and holds up a hand. “Please just— just let me finish,” he sighs. “I know I’ve been nothing but a burden, so I really shouldn’t have lashed out the way I did yesterday. I know I don’t have any right to be angry. It just— It just hurt, though. Like, I knew someone was going to say something, because obviously I haven’t been trying hard enough. I guess it just hurt more, coming from you, Dai. I know you’re my best friend and I don’t deserve you but the selfish part of me just wishes you’d have spoken up sooner. But-But I’m working on it, I promise.” He smiles, hopefully in a reassuring way.

Daichi blinks at Suga silently, his entire body still. His lips are parted and his eyes are blown wide in a mix of confusion and horror that Suga can’t quite decipher.

“Say something, please,”

It feels like eons before Daichi does speak.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, almost too quiet for Suga to hear, despite them being the only two in the room. “I don’t completely understand, but is that—” he pauses, and it breaks Suga’s heart to see tears prick the corners of Daichi’s eyes.  _ Look what you’ve done, Suga,  _ he thinks.  _ You can’t even open your mouth without hurting someone. _ “Is that really what you think of yourself, Suga?” 

The boy laughs hollowly in reply.

“You can drop the act, now. I mean it. Really, it’s fine.”

“What  _ act?” _

“Oh, you know, ‘Suga, you’re important to the team,’ ‘Suga, great job today,’ ‘Suga we care about you,’” He spits, the words soaked in more venom than he means to let on. The bitterness he’d repressed threatens to spill over; he pushes it away, telling himself he only needs to convince Daichi that he’s fine. He’s just  _ fine _ .

“There’s no fucking act, Suga, why can’t you see—”

“God, finally!” The setter replies, an unknown force driving him to stand up suddenly. “It’s about time you stopped acting like some goody two-shoes,” He smirks. Fine, then. If Daichi wouldn’t budge, he’d push him. Suga ignores the sinking feeling in his stomach, the tiny voice in the back of his brain protesting,  _ no, no, no, this isn’t right. _

The other rises to his feet now, too, visibly trying to control his anger.

“What the hell has gotten into you?! Suga, I’m just trying to help you here! You haven’t been yourself lately, I’m just really wor—”

“Save it, Sawamura.” Suga says, surprised by the amount of ice in his own voice. Daichi is taken aback for a moment, hurt flashing across his expression. It’s as quickly gone as it came, though.

“No, let me finish,” he fires back. “I want to help you, goddammit!”

“Thanks, but I don’t need your help,” Suga says, his voice carefully neutral. The sinking feeling intensifies. He moves to leave, only to feel a firm grip circle his wrist. He looks down at Daichi’s hand and scoffs at the sense of déjà vú. He makes no move to leave, though, knowing it’s no use. He decides to stare at the hangnail on Daichi’s pinky finger.

“You’ve clearly lost weight, you fainted last week, and I know your grades have been slipping. You’re not yourself, Suga. Please, talk to me,” He nearly sobs, his anger replaced with desperation. Suga preferred the anger, he decided.

Suga feels a sudden rush of anger. Was this some kind of cruel joke?  _ You’ve lost weight? _ Really?

“Funny,” he scoffs. He winces at the way his voice cracks. “Are you done?”

Daichi’s grip suddenly goes slack, making Suga look at him in surprise. The captain’s attention isn’t on him, though. Instead, he watches the approaching shadows in the windows of the club room, grimacing.

“We’ll talk later,” Daichi mutters, just as Hinata and Kageyama burst through the door. Suga sighs, plastering on a smile to greet his kouhais.

“Suga-san, I totally beat Bakageyama here, right?!”

* * *

Practice is tense, to say the least. At first, Tanaka teases the two of them, hoping to disperse the awkward atmosphere for the sake of everyone.

“Oi, trouble in paradise, Mr. and Mrs. Sawamura?” He sings, jogging between Suga and Daichi. Suga offers him a placating smile, saying, “Duh, having to deal with you—”

“Tanaka.” Daichi interrupts. Suga and the boy in mention both look at him in surprise. He wears his “super scary captain” face, as Noya had dubbed it. Tanaka gulps before replying.

“Y-Yes, Daichi-san?”

“Do you want to run extra laps?”

“No...”

“Then I suggest you mind your own business.” And with that, Daichi speeds up, leaving Tanaka and Suga behind to jog in awkward silence. Suga apologizes on his behalf hastily before also quickening his pace, hoping to talk some sense into Daichi. However, the sudden tilt of the ground makes his strides falter. His ears ring; catching up to Daichi is no longer a priority. Suga slows to a deliberate jog, waiting for the spell of dizziness to pass. He huffs, squeezing his eyes shut tightly, trusting his knowledge of the gym to keep from crashing into anything for a moment.

When he opens his eyes, he immediately looks across the gym to meet Daichi’s concerned gaze: eyebrows furrowed, lips pursed. Suga quickly looks away, instead putting all his focus into putting one foot in front of the other. He thanks whatever deity it was that got him to stay upright until Coach Ukai calls time.

The rest of practice is dedicated to conditioning, which clues more than a few of the team members into the conflict brewing between the captains.

When they do wall sits, the two carefully place themselves on either side of Asahi like usual, but don’t make conversation across the ace. At least, not to each other. They both offer shouts of encouragement, urging their team members not to give up through their own pain, but gone is the usual teasing between them. If anyone but Asahi takes notice, they don’t say anything. Suga carefully avoids his imploring gaze and he knows Daichi does the same.

The rest of conditioning is grueling, but it helps to take Suga’s mind off of their fight. He throws himself into every drill, focused on burning calories—not that he had consumed any since yesterday—and picturing the horrific sight in the mirror rather than letting his body still. At this point his head is pounding and adrenaline is just barely winning over the gravity threatening to pull his body to the floor, and he knows he’ll pay for it later.

Suga is knee-deep in desperation and sweat when the shrill blow of Coach Ukai’s whistle punctuates the air, every one of the boys collapsing onto the sidelines.

“Suicides... are... child... abuse,” Tanaka pants between deep gulps of air. The others mutter their agreement around him, lying in similarly prone positions on the hardwood floor.

“Don’t forget your cool-down stretches, or I’ll show you child abuse!” Ukai threatens from across the gym. Everyone laughs as Tanaka stutters out a “yes sir!” and a hurried apology.

“Agh, go easy on me today, Noya,” He says, grimacing as he makes his way towards his stretching partner.

“Actually, do you mind if I stretch with Noya-kun today?” Suga says, jogging over to them.

“Uh—”

“Great, thanks!” Suga smiles, clapping a hand onto his shoulder. “Now Daichi needs a partner, go on!”

And with a light shove into the direction of a confused looking captain, Suga has finally cornered Noya. Not that he’d been avoiding him, per se, but it was hard to find him during the day, as they were on different floors.

He ignores the question on Noya’s face, settling into a straddle across from him. Wordlessly, Suga offers out his hands, which the other takes. They claps at the wrists and Suga leans back, pulling Noya with him.

“Ow, Suga-san—”

“So, what’d you want to talk about?”

“J-Just some stuff—Jesus, that fucking hurts,” Noya says, his voice strained. Suga lets up the pressure just a bit.

“Not Jesus, sorry. You can ask Asahi for him,” Suga muses in reply. “‘Some stuff?’ Care to elaborate? I’m just curious, no judgement here.”

“I uh, didn’t want to do this here. S’why I asked about this weekend. This isn’t the right place, y’know?”

“Ah, okay. Sorry, I was just really curious,” he says a bit sheepishly. “I’m glad you’re comfortable talking about it with me, though,” Suga adds kindly. At this, Noya suddenly avoids his gaze, turning his head slightly to redirect his focus into his armpit.

Suga’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t push.

“Alright, let’s switch.”

Noya sits up with a small groan, then leans back. The burning sensation on the inside of thighs isn’t entirely unpleasant. Then, Noya pulls further—

“Holy fuck!” Suga hisses.

“Oh my god, Suga-san, did you just swear?” Noya laughs.

“S-Shut up,” He grumbles through the pain.

“Oi, Tanaka, get a load of this— Ow, what’d you pinch me for, Suga?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops, filler :/


	4. and the walls came tumbling down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw // depictions of eating disorders, mentioned bulimia, strongly implied anorexia, homophobic slur, mentions of parent death, implied chronic illness, mention of suicide
> 
> less daisuga, more sad suga. whoops.

Suga offered his sweater to a girl in his World History class on Wednesday. Mina, he thinks her name was. He’d noticed the boys in the back rows whispering and pointing at her figure, whispering lewd remarks that made Suga’s skin crawl and his blood boil. Those boys were the same people that shoved underclassmen against the lockers during lunch for fun, the kind of people that taped “FAG” onto Suga’s back in junior high.

And as much as Suga wanted to stand up to them, he knew it was no use. The teachers would always side with the bullies once they offhandedly mentioned their parents’ donations to the school or simpered about “not meaning it.” So the least Suga could do was offer Mina slight relief in the form of his sweater. It was his standard issue school uniform sweater vest, cream colored and soft with wear. He gave Mina a small smile as he wordlessly tugged it off, leaning over the aisle to drop it into her lap when the teacher’s back was turned.

Gratitude shone in Mina’s eyes. The sweater was beginning to slightly hang off of Suga’s already lean frame; it completely swamped the girl, who was at least ten centimeters shorter than him. Suga was bitterly reminded of how much bigger the garment looked on Mina, the delicacy of his thin wrists, her small frame so compact and— it wasn’t the time or place for that, Suga had chided himself. His own insecurities could take a backseat for once so that he could focus on his classmate’s problems.

Maybe, to Mina, it was a show of pity, poorly disguised in the form of fabric and a smile. But to Suga, that couldn’t be farther from the truth.

It wasn’t meant as a romantic gesture or to poke fun at her along with the other boys, rather, Suga saw himself in her. He recognized the all too familiar vulnerability in her eyes, the helpless nature in the way her arms hugged her torso and she ducked her head down. He saw himself in the way her hands twitched to cover her ears; being talked about behind your back was one thing, hearing the words were another form of torture entirely. Immediately, Suga’s mind recalls the gazes of his classmates, his teachers, and most of all, his teammates. One in particular—Daichi—comes to mind. The hurt that was increased tenfold when those words tumbled out of his mouth made Suga hope that the girl didn’t care about any of those boys. Others’ opinions were easy to ignore, but only if you didn’t care about the person.

The sweater wouldn’t stop the boys’ antics or their predatory gazes, but if it was anything, it would give Mina one more layer of defense. Suga had learned for himself that thick skin could only develop with time.

Mina came to return the sweater during lunch, stopping by his homeroom where he ate lunch with Daichi and Asahi. Suga was wearing an identical one, already—he owned at least four of the same garment, like the rest of his classmates. She bowed, offering the neatly folded sweater to its owner with two hands. Suga said his thanks and waved her off with a genial smile, saying it was no big deal, before turning back to Daichi and Asahi.

As he resumed his rant about how disgusting the school’s latest attempt at lunch had been, he noticed his two friends’ eyes still looking past him. He turned, seeing Mina still standing behind him.

“Oh, hey, Mina, can I help—”

“Are you okay, Suga-san?” The girl’s eyes bored into his with so much concern and understanding, it sent a chill down Suga’s spine. For a brief moment, his mind flicked to how he had actually never bothered trying the school lunch, or any lunch, for that matter, for the last month. He dismissed the thought quickly, though, a practiced behavior.

“Of course, Mina-chan,” He replied, though it came out as more of a question than a statement, confusion etched into his features.

She only looked at him, her expression friendly but reminiscent of pity. Then she left.

“What was that?” Asahi asked.

“Dunno,” Suga replied honestly. He still felt rattled from the way Mina seemed to see through his facade so easily, but forced out a laugh.

“Lent her my sweater the other day, guess she read too much into it. Girls sure are crazy, huh?” Daichi and Asahi laugh along with him, one of them teasing him about something to do with his love life. (He was pretty sure it was Asahi; Daichi had chosen that moment to space out.)

He apologizes to Mina in his head as the forced laughter comes a little too easily to his face; he suddenly feels no better than the boys who sat in the back of his History class.

* * *

Productivity is satisfying. Suga likes productivity—the feeling of completing all of his assignments early, writing dates down in his planner, getting all of his siblings in bed before ten. He likes knowing that the feeling of achievement, no matter how small, was of his own doing. In fact, it was one of the reasons he’d picked up volleyball—despite the outcome of the game being something he couldn’t always control, what he  _ could _ control was how he tossed, who he tossed to, and the knowledge that he had given a game his all.

And that was another part of it — giving it his all. Failure would always be his fault, but failure combined with the knowledge of having been able to do better was worse. If he tried his best, he could at least say “well, I did what I could” at the end of the day.

Suga looks down at the number on the scale. Frustration bubbles in his chest. He couldn’t give up, not yet—he knows he just isn’t trying hard enough; he refused to fail when the solution was so plain to see.

He was just being  _ weak _ . He was still eating too much and exercising too little. Recalling everything he’s eaten in the last day, the calculator in his head well-versed in the caloric content of just about every food there is, he tries to put numeric value to his faults.

Counting the granola bar from yesterday—well, this morning technically—which had been a stupid decision at three in the morning in order to get his stomach to stop cramping so he could just get some sleep, he had consumed about 932 calories. That was... 268 under his maximum. And with the exercise he did, he probably burned about 350 of those 932. That would make his net intake 582 calories.

Suga is fairly confident in his math skills. He’s also pretty sure of his memory, which tells him that someone his size and his height should be consuming around 2,000 calories. It didn’t take a genius to see that what he should’ve been eating and what he actually ate were a far cry from each other.

So why was he still so  _ fat _ ?

Tears pricking his eyes as he looks back down to the scale, he realizes. He just isn’t  _ trying _ hard enough. His goal was too easy; he wasn’t pushing as hard as he could.

He wanted—no, needed—to swim in that sweater the way Mina had. A normal person, a person worthy of everything he had would be able to make that happen. Maybe a small part of this is in vanity, but that’s fine as long as he has his eyes on his goal. If he could bend this body to his will, he’d prove himself.

Suga knows he can still do better; determination and belief in one’s own abilities were just two sides of the same coin. If he had to restrict himself even more, so be it. He just needed  _ control _ over this damn body. He wasn’t allowed to give up until he’d tried his best, after all.

The silver-haired boy sighs, stripping himself of the rest of his clothes. He’d walked into the bathroom meaning to take a cold shower and ended up having a near meltdown over his weight  _ again  _ just from a look in the mirror and a number.

Pathetic.

His motions are practiced and stiff. He strips himself of his underwear, turns the knob of the shower, and steps under the stream of icy water in just two breaths, like ripping off a bandage.

A blast of cold water in the morning never fails to wake him up. His body suppresses a violent shiver as he wills himself to bear the cold, reassured with the fact that this is a step towards progress. Cold showers force your body to use calories to heat yourself up, so this is productive. Combined with an empty stomach, the cold shower would hopefully get his body to start burning just some of all that  _ fat _ . The thought is the only thing keeping him from bolting out of the shower and into a warm towel.

After several long moments, the water’s temperature becomes bearable enough for him to wash his hair and lather the rest of his body in soap. His thoughts unwillingly wander to food as his stomach growls needily; he pointedly ignores its cries for food as he rinses off the last of the suds.

It was Sunday, which meant fasting. It’s only about nine-thirty in the morning (he slept in, because being asleep means he isn’t eating), so Suga still has a whole day to suffer through. Not only that though, but he also had to meet Noya. Thinking back to yesterday morning’s practice, he recalls catching the libero sending him strange glances every so often. Suga couldn’t be sure if he’d just imagined it, though, with his head spinning a touch more than usual after the extra laps Coach Ukai had made them run.

Suga had tried catching Noya after practice, but he had run off with a loud declaration of having lots of overdue homework to finish. To Suga, it was an obvious escape; that boy wouldn’t touch homework on a Saturday if you held him at gunpoint. He let it go, but now, his curiosity is more than piqued. He’s almost excited to meet up with Noya, even if the ache in his gut tells him to go back to bed and lay there for the rest of the day.

He pushes his body’s demands to the back of his mind as he steps out of the shower shivering, quickly wrapping a towel around his waist and throwing another around his shoulders for his hair. He hears the rumble of the garage door closing as he exits the bathroom; his father must have just gotten home, then.

Suga quickly dries himself off, then pulls on a pair of black sweatpants, one of his graphic t-shirts, and grabs his team jacket as an afterthought. He tugs the jacket on as he makes his way down the hallway, glad to have brought his jacket. Suga was always cold nowadays, it seemed.

He stops just before the kitchen entrance, not wanting to make his presence known yet. His father goes about his usual routine, letting out an all too familiar sigh of relief once he collapses into the leftmost dining room chair.

With a pang, Suga sees the unoccupied chair beside him. It’s been empty for some years now, never touched, always reserved for a guest that would never come. At least, that was what he and his father told Suga’s younger siblings.

On the rare occasion that they all sat down at the table for a family dinner, the one chair was always left alone; an unspoken rule that no one should sit in it. To the younger Sugawaras, it had been that way as long as they could remember. After all, Hisashi and Niko had barely been a year old when their mother passed, and Rie and Emiko hadn't been much older, only about three and four, respectively.

Suga, being older than Emiko by more than five years, has the most memories of their mother, the only one who can recall more than fleeting images the ghost that occupies the chair besides Mr. Sugawara himself.

In some sick and twisted way, he’s thankful he is the only one to cohesively remember his mother. The visions he has of her are marked by sallow skin and IVs, the beep of the heart monitor and half-delirious “I love you’s” muttered from a hospital bed. His younger siblings hadn’t had to witness their mother and father huddled in those very chairs, quietly sobbing in each other’s arms over blood test results and hospital bills when they thought Suga was asleep. So in a sense, he is glad to have spared his siblings the pain, to be able to lie straight to their faces and say that their mother lived her last days happily.

“Kou? Is that you?”

Suga realizes he’d let himself get carried away in thought, staring at the chair as he stood at the mouth of the darkened hallway. As his father squints at his figure from his place at the table, Suga sees how tired his father is. The sunshine from the kitchen window bathes the wrinkles and slight sag of his skin, his weariness and the morning light forming a contradicting sight. Suga allows himself half a moment longer to linger in the dark hallway before padding into the kitchen.

“Hey dad,” He greets.  
“Koushi,” His father lights up, fatigue wiped away in an instant. The ease with which his father masks his pain stirs an unease in Suga, but he nudges the feeling away in favor of making tea for his father.

“How was work?” He asks, going through the practiced motions of putting the kettle onto the stove, filling a cup with tea leaves, then settling into the chair across from his father at the dining table.

“Hmm,” is all he says at first. His gaze is far off, a smile on his face but the weight on his shoulders plain to see. Something tightens in Suga’s chest, something that makes their familiar routine somber this time around.

Suga counts to ten. When his father doesn’t reply with “fine” and a sad smile, slight concern bleeds into Suga’s features.

“Dad?”

He only buries his face into his hands, sighing as he tugs off his pale blue scrub cap. When did his father’s hair become so gray?

“Today—”

The kettle whistles, high and piercing and threatening to wake Suga’s younger siblings; he leaps up to turn off the stove. He breathes a sigh of relief as the noise slows to a slow whine, then to silence. Well, almost silence.

Suga turns around to look at his father, whose shoulders now shake, quiet hiccups escaping from the crevice between his hands. The feeling in his chest gets impossible tighter when he sees his father’s wallet laying open in front of him, a faded picture of his smiling mother framed by sliver of sunlight leaking through the blinds.

He doesn’t trust himself to speak, instead focusing on pouring the boiling water into the teacup. Suga sets the tea in front of his father gingerly, but doesn’t sit across from him this time. With two hands, he pulls out the chair to the left of his father and pulls his shaking figure into his own chest.

“Today,” he begins again. “It’s been n-nine years, Koushi.”

Suga’s eyes widen slightly as he tears his eyes from the smiling woman, who lies atop his father’s unfolded wallet. He looks for something else to focus on, anything else to focus on— the steam rising from the teacup will do.

Nine years. He thinks he had begun to forget around year seven, but this is the first year the anniversary had evaded his mind completely. A stab of guilt pierces through his heart, which is already breaking for his father.

“At work, there was a woman... Stage f-four. She didn’t m-make it. I wanted to comfort her wife, but I just... I couldn’t, Kou.”

Another shuddering breath.

“She loved you all s-so much, how could she just l-leave—” Suga knows he means his mother, now. He only shushes his sobs gently, vaguely wondering how the two of them look to his mother, who must be watching them. At least, he likes to believe so.

Her smile, though just faded ink on a square of paper, pains Suga to look at. He averts his gaze, choosing to remain his focus on the steam rising from his father’s untouched tea.

Watching the wisps of vapor fade into the air around them, he slowly nods; a lump in his throat threatens to form if he tries to say anything. Suga knows the malice in his father’s words are aimed not at his mother, but at the universe and the hand it dealt her. Cradling the nape of his father’s neck, Suga tries to rub circles into his back as his own hands quake.

Son holding father, tea cooling on the table. The lights are off, but the morning sun casts yellow beams across this devastating family portrait.

Is it bad that his father’s sorrow makes Suga’s chest ache more than his mother’s actual death?

They stay like that until the first shouts of the twins’ bickering sounds down the stairs, the sunlight falling at a higher angle from the sky and Suga’s arms gone numb.

“Dad,” he says quietly. His father is already nodding, pulling himself in the direction of the living room couch. “Sleep. You’re tired.”

“Thank you, Koushi,” He says quietly, eyes slipping shut as four pairs of footsteps thunder down the stairs.

“Nii-san, is Daddy home?”

The Sugawara siblings’ loud approach is cut short by a hushed whisper from Hisashi. Suga smiles at the sight of his siblings, four heads stacked cartoonishly atop one another, peering past the banister of the stares.

Pressing a finger to his lips, he motions them to come closer.

“Pancakes?” He whispers.

It’s a miracle that their cheers don’t wake their father.

Suga attaches a note to the saran wrap-covered plate in the fridge before he leaves the house.

* * *

_ For dad! :) _

_ P.S. for DAD!! @ emiko _

_ P.P.S. I mean it!! u already had some this morning _

* * *

_ Hey Noya, r we still doing 12 today? _

**[Sugawara K.]** 11:50

He supposes it’s a bit late to text, since it’s already 11:50 and he’s on the train, but he has to do something other than avoid the stares of the people next to him as his stomach growls for the umpteenth time.

Surprisingly enough, Suga gets a quick reply.

_ Yeah _

**[Nishinoya Y.]** 11:50

Again, Suga hates texting. It was too easy to read too much into a few simple words or the pacing of the person’s messages. He doesn’t text the second-year often, but something still seems off to Suga in the way his response is worded.

He tells himself he’s being silly, shaking his head to rid his mind of the ridiculous thoughts. The churning in his gut isn’t hunger, for once. He doesn’t know if he prefers this strange jumble of nerves or the familiar ache.

He decides both are horrible, but at least one is only temporary.

The walk to Sakanoshita store is short and easy; Suga lets his legs carry him from the train station then through the suburbs on autopilot. It’s strange making this journey on a Sunday afternoon, but the habitual nature of it still manages to settle the slightly quickened thump of his heart.

Suga rounds the block, and there Noya is, short but unmistakable with that tuft of bleached hair, leaning against the side of one of the vending machines. At first, he thinks the libero hasn’t noticed him—if he had, surely he would have begun to flail his arms excitedly and yell. But as he nears the boy, he can see him avert his gaze once they make eye contact, uncharacteristically toying with his hoodie strings. Although Suga had always been perceptive of his teammates’ behaviors, it didn’t take much to notice the boy’s tense nature.

The worry and unease are harder to ignore than ever, now, but Suga schools his features into an amicable smile in hopes of reassurance. Noya looks like he tries his best to grin back, but it fails quite obviously.

“Suga-san!” He almost winces at the feigned enthusiasm.

“Hey, Noya-kun.”

“Wanna get a gari gari kun?”

“No, I’m alri—” But Noya is already dragging both of them through the sliding doors, both of them sending hasty bows in Coach Ukai’s direction, which he waves off in greeting.

“I’ll pay!”

“O-Okay,” Suga stutters out, a bit amazed at how they ended up in front of the freezer doors, which were at the very back of the store, so suddenly. The boy is nonchalant and carefree as he plucks the last two soda gari gari kuns from the shelf, even humming to himself as he does so.

Suga is too polite to question him, so he pretends for a moment that they’re just two guys grabbing a snack on a Sunday in the middle of the day. Like bros. Bro stuff. (God, okay, Suga  _ hates _ that word.) Nothing was out of the ordinary.

As Noya is paying for their ice cream, Suga thinks about what a shame it’ll be once he has to accidentally drop the treat onto the sidewalk. Guilt gnaws at his bellow, but he really couldn’t eat it if he tried, anyway. The mere thought of putting something into his mouth, chewing, swallowing, feeling the calories seep into his body— it was horrifying just to imagine what little control he had amassed over the last two days disappearing down the drain with slip of his willpower.

At least buying Suga something made Noya’s smile seem a bit more genuine.

The rest of the process goes along relatively uneventfully, leaving the store with a wave to Coach Ukai, and Suga can feel himself grow both more anxious with every second of  _ normalcy _ .

Noya pulls out one of the ice bars from the plastic bag as he plops down onto the curb, Suga following suit. Though every fiber in his body screams at him not to, Suga offers out his hand expectantly.

The feeling plastic, slippery with condensation, makes him suppress a cringe. He stares at the bright blue packaging, tempted to flip it over to see how many calories such an innocent looking thing could hold.

Unsurprisingly, Noya has already wolfed his down by the time Suga decides he would look too weird.

“Thanks,” Suga says, still holding the ice cream bar like it might attack him. Noya only hums in response. “...What did you want to talk about, Noya-kun?”

Scuffing the toe of his shoe against the pavement, he shrugs, suddenly quiet again.

“Just, like, I dunno. How’re you doing?” Suga bites his lip, decides to take his chances.

“Can we cut the crap?”

Noya looks up at him. There’s a mix of guilt and anxiety on his face, the source of which Suga can’t quite put a finger on. And then it’s gone, along with the half-melted ice cream plucked from his fingers.

“Hey!” Suga protests instinctively, although he never had plans to eat the damn thing.

The libero says nothing, consuming it in just a few bites, licking his fingers clean once he’s done. He grins impishly at his senpai before shoving his hands into the pocket of his hoodie, the smile fading quickly to be replaced with something more serious.

“S’not like you were gonna eat it anyways.”

“I w-was—”

“How long, Suga-san?” Noya’s words are spoken so low, timed just right so the passing of cars doesn’t drown them out.

Suga doesn’t want to believe Noya is talking about what he thinks, but the way his eyes, wide and brown and searching, tell him otherwise. Still, he fights until the end.

“I don’t know what you—”

“My guess is about two, maybe three months depending on how bad it got and how fast.”

Suga is at a loss for words. Every brick he’s stacked, thread he’s woven, nail he’s hammered into the protection of his secret is being ripped apart. He’s clawing for something,  _ anything— _

“I’m not... doing anything bad,” Is the pathetic excuse that falls from his lips.

“Is that what you really think, Suga-san?”

A pregnant pause.

“Please don’t tell.” To his relief, he can see Noya resolutely shake his head in his peripheral.

“No shit, how stupid do you think I am? I’d never, scout’s honor!” And there’s that boisterous attitude, even in the midst of a conversation about something so heavy and awkward. “...But you have to promise me you’ll get help.”

_ Help for what? _

“Of course, Noya.”

To his surprise, the other boy  _ scoffs _ .

“Don’t bullshit me,” Noya pokes a finger into Suga’s chest, leaning in to look him dead in the eyes. There’s a fire there, of anger and determination, but behind that fire is... hurt.

“...Noya?”

For a moment it is just the passing cars and their heavy breathing and the whine of cicadas and there are no words exchanged.

“I can’t lose you too, Suga-san,” He finally says abruptly, turning away to aggressively wipe at his eyes. The pieces slowly fall into place in Suga’s brain.

“Noya... How did you even suspect...?”

“Well,” The younger sighs after a moment of having composed himself. His next words come out in a rush, as if he’s been holding them in for some time now, thoughts urgent but unorganized. “You’re obviously losing weight—even if you don’t think so—actually, I’d bet you think quite the opposite.” He looks to Suga, his expression saying  _ don’t argue with me. _

There it is again, that stupid, cruel joke—

“And that. That—that look. I’ve seen it on my sister. Every time someone asked if she was okay. Or about food. If she was eating enough. And you’re the same when someone mentions your appearance, or about the cake on your birthday, or weight or—”

“ _ Stop _ .” The word tumbles out of Suga’s mouth before he can help it. He’s breathing hard despite having only uttered a single syllable, his head and his heart pounding dizzyingly. Maybe it’s the malnutrition, maybe it’s the ugly truth in Noya’s words. Maybe it’s both.

“Sorry,” The libero says sincerely. Suga squeezes his eyes shut because this is too much too fast and God, it is way to hot for July—

“Hey.” A hand on his back makes Suga jump, quite literally, out of his thoughts. “It’s okay.” He pauses once again, letting Suga compose himself before continuing. It seems he took the time to choose his own words, too, though, as he speaks slightly clipped and stiff. “My sister had bulimia. No one saw until it was too late. She left for university twenty pounds underweight, but we all thought it was just stress from exams, that she’d start to look better once she came home for the holidays.” Suga opens his mouth to say  _ I’m not your sister, I’m not underweight, I don’t have bulimia— _

“She committed suicide three days before she was supposed to come home for Christmas.”

The words die on his tongue, his mouth going dry. Suga feels, for lack of a better word, bad.

“This isn’t my pity party,” Noya quickly adds. “My point is... Is that you need help, Suga-san. I don’t want you ending up—”  
“Jesus christ, I’m not fucking suicidal,” Suga all but snarls. Suddenly, his defenses are right back up, ready to shoot down anything that dares challenge his facade. They’re the same reflexes that pushed Daichi away, the same urges to collect evidence as to why he isn’t some fucking eating disorder freak.

He regrets his words, though, when he sees Noya’s expression morph into something else just briefly.

“Sor—”

“I didn’t say you were.” He meets Noya’s eyes. The boy is infuriatingly, wholly, unconcerned by his harsh words. Suga knows he won’t win this one, no matter how hard he tries.

“...I  _ am _ sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Noya sighs. “Not like you killed her.” Suga can’t help but wince at the blunt nature of his words. Suddenly, the younger stands, plastic bag with its popsicle wrappers inside of it crinkling in his fist. He looks down at Suga, making him feel like the kouhai here, suddenly.

“Y’know, I’m not the best at this... feelings shit. And I’m definitely not the help that you need. But... you know that you have the team, Suga-san. Every one of us. Especially— especially Daichi. He’s the most worried of us all. Please,” He smiles. “If not for yourself, do it for Daichi. Get your head out of your ass before I pull it out for you.”

The setter can only gape up at the younger, shocked still and seemingly rooted to the pavement. If he had to imagine what a pep talk from Noya would sound like, this was exactly that. But if he had to picture what a “stop starving yourself” talk would go, this was a far cry from that. Wasn’t Noya supposed to berate him? Call his dad? Tell a teacher? Pull up statistics and facts about food and the human body?

“I know I may not be able to convince you, right now,” Noya says, seeming to read his mind. “You won’t get better overnight. Take your time, but don’t think I’ll be keeping an eye out for you.” Suga would laugh if he could muster up the will to make a sound; it should be him doing the scolding, not his libero.

“Thank you,” Is what he chokes out after several long moments.

Noya is already three paces down the street, turning to flash him a peace sign before disappearing around the corner.

Suga doesn’t realize that he’s crying or that the sun has set until Ukai comes outside, asking him if he needs a ride home, if there’s someone he can call.  _ No,  _ he answers.  _ No, I’m alright. _

But as he walks home, Noya’s words heavy on his shoulders, he lets himself think that maybe, just maybe, he isn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i honestly did not expect this fic to get the amount of love it has. i started this as an outlet to cope with my own struggles, and having people tell me they actually enjoy this is ??/??!?@?@??!?!?!?!????? ヽ(°〇°)ﾉ
> 
> anywho yeah ok brain short-circuiting. anyways, thank you guys for sticking around while i take centuries at a time to update. (on that note, it is Late At Night and this has been proofread like,, once lol so pls forgive any mistakes)
> 
> i also think this is a good time to reiterate that this fic is going to portray very, very twisted perspectives on eating disorders, both internally and from others. i obviously plan to address all these things by the end of this story, but for now please keep in mind how wrong these characters can be about real-life issues.
> 
> anyways, thank you to everyone who had read, left a kudos, or commented. whether or not you enjoy this story, just taking the time to read it means the world to me <3
> 
> whoo! if you read all of this, thanks (o´▽`o)  
> if anyone ever wants to talk or send memes and/or hate mail, pls do msg my socials :)


	5. flood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> full disclaimer that this is far from perfect bc it was triggering to write this sooo i didn't wanna proofread it more than once lol
> 
> specific tw's // (very) brief mention of self-harm in a negative light, graphic depictions of binge-eating, graphic depictions of vomiting, brief mention of suicide, anorexia

When a dam has undergone stress after stress, there is bound to be pressure on the wall. Hence, the purpose of the dam—to release water after a period of build-up.

Suga believes he may have missed the “release” part when building his dam—his emotional one, that is.

His blockade is a wall of concrete, unmoving and unforgiving to the churning waters behind it. The concrete is not smooth, far from it indeed. It has patches where Suga has hastily slapped anything he can find over the holes—last week’s compliment, a bandaid, the smile Daichi gave him as he left the locker room.

He must admit that, despite himself, he is a bit proud of his work. But those moments of pride only come rarely, when he feels that he’s avoided a major spill or after the day’s rain reaches the very top of the dam, but does not spill over, its meniscus carefully perched just before the ledge—in other words, close calls.

His conversation with Noya is one of many close calls, though surely one of the worst ones yet. Sure, his secret is out—but only to one person, and that one person is trustworthy. 

Suga knew that his underclassman was never once for keeping his mouth shut when it came to gossip, though not with mal intentions. He was just so energetic that is was hard for him  _ not  _ to socialize,  _ not  _ to run the ear off of whoever he was talking to; he and Hinata were very similar in that nature. It was what Suga adored about his kouhais, even if they did drive him up the walls.

Despite Noya’s talkative nature, he knew from not just two years of being on the same team, but the look in his eyes that he wouldn’t tell a soul. Empathy and the personal ties Noya had to his... issue would stop his words cold in his mouth if he ever so much as dared to try.

For some reason, the thought both reassures and disappoints Suga. For obvious reasons, the former, but the latter? It was a mystery to himself.

Maybe, deep down, he wanted someone else to find out. Maybe this was his cry for help, his equivalent of attention-seeking lines on the insides of his forearms. He winces at himself, knowing he has no right to compare himself to that matter.

Still, it bothers him. Was that why he was really doing this? For attention?

_ No,  _ he firmly reminds himself.  _ Control. I’m in control, and I’m proving it. _

And for a jarring moment, Suga is transported back to that walk home on the night of his birthday, thinking the same thought to himself—really, who was he trying to convince?

The question almost stops himself dead in his own footsteps. Suddenly, there is the weight of the cake in his arms, the glint of the plastic bag with the toothbrush in the corner of his eye. With a shake of his head (that leaves him seeing spots), he clears the thought from his mind. 

_ Focus on getting home _ , he tells himself.  _ So what? So you can weigh yourself in the mirror and cry again? _

His inner monologue is right and he knows it. Hesitating, he looks up, his eyes having been trained on the ground beneath him. Depending on where he was, he could probably loiter around the park for a few hours, just to miss family dinner and “bring the leftovers up to his room.” He’d tried not to make it a habit, lest it becomes suspicious, but it was a viable option.

Actually, scratch that. Because now he stood at the driveway of his own house, unsure of how he got here. He’d been doing that more and more recently—blanking out, having moments of unawareness in which his body operated on autopilot. He’s about to turn on his heel when Niko comes running out the front door, all but hollering his head off. Suga can’t help but smile widely, a mix of habitual obligation and genuine happiness.

He squats down, spreading his arms. So much for the park.

“Hey, bud, did you miss me?”

“Nii-sannnn!” He exclaims, throwing himself into Suga’s embrace. The older winces slightly, moving one of his heels to regain his balance. His head spins for a moment; he blinks several times to clear the fog in his mind. A ten-year-old really shouldn’t have the ability to almost knock him over.

“...new episode of Paw Patrol!” The haziness was in his ears too, it seemed, because his little brother has started on a ramble about his cartoons in the time that Suga was wrangling his body back to normalcy.

“Ooh, sounds cool,” Suga smiles. He lets his knees rest on the concrete—he just needs a moment.

“Nii-san, are you okay?” Niko pouts down at him, his forehead wrinkled.

“I’m alright, I’m alright,” Suga smiles automatically, brushing his thumb over the boy’s forehead. “Don’t do that, you’ll be all wrinkly and old by the time you’re sixteen,” he gently chastises.

His little brother gasps in earnest. “Sixteen?! But that’s sooo far away!”

“Not as far as you think,” Suga replies, poking his nose with his index finger. He lets out a “hey!” in protest, which Suga pretends not to notice. “Let’s go inside, yeah?” He stands, and the familiar yet still annoying spots dance across his vision once more.

Index and middle fingers grasped my Niko’s smaller hand, he uses his free one to press at his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut as if it will stop the oncoming migraine. He doesn’t realize that his legs have stopped listening to him until his little brother is tugging on his hand, already a pace and a half ahead on the pavement leading up to their front door.

“Sorry, Niko-chan, just stood up too fast,” he smiles. The words never make it out of his mouth, though, because another wave of dizziness hits him, this time stronger. _God, really, right now? Of all times, right—_ _  
_ He never finishes the thought, because suddenly his head in the grass and he’s staring up at the night sky, eyelids beseeching him to let them close as his little brother screams, sounding much farther than he had just been.

He fights to stay awake, but it is no use. The least he can do is let himself relax, relax with the knowledge that at least for now, the dam is holding back the water. Niko’s smile and his little hands and the feeling of his forehead under the pad of his thumb are patching up the holes; there will be no water spilled, not right now.

* * *

There is a ringing in Suga’s ears. It sounds like his alarm clock; he doesn’t like it. It takes him a moment to realize that it’s just the sound of his siblings.

He tries to open his eyes, but the blinding lights force them closed. Suga doesn’t remember dining room lights ever being so bright—wait, dining room?

The surface beneath him is hard and unforgiving, save for the cushion under his head. His head is pounding and he feels drowsy, the kind of fatigue that sleep chases you with once you escape its clutches.

There are voices too, he realizes. “...going to be okay?” With a pang in his chest, he realizes the words of distress come from his younger siblings.

“Kou will be okay, Niko,” he hears his father reassure. “He probably just forgot to eat, you know how busy your brother gets.” His words are soothing, but Suga can detect a hint on underlying concern in his father’s voice that Niko wouldn’t have spotted.

That word drops a stone into the pit of his stomach:  _ eat. _

Suddenly it feels like he is on an examination table, the dining room lights shining down on him like a patient in surgery. He is under critique in their spotlights, laid here for dissection.

He dares to open his eyes once more, finding the light slightly more bearable, but shuts them once again, thinking about the conversation to come if he were to awaken. It’s too late, though, because he hears a gasp from one of his siblings. Damn their watchful eyes. Children really were too attentive when it came to the smallest things.

“He’s awake, Dad! He’s awake!” Niko’s words are whisper-shouted, which Suga is grateful for. He doesn’t know how well he’d be able to handle his sibling at full volume right now.

“Oh, just— Just give me a minute, okay?” His father’s voice comes from farther away, from what sounds like the living room.

“Nii-san! Are you okay? What happened? Are—”

“Niko.” Suga slowly opens his eyes to squint at the boy, holding up a hand. “Please, just—slow down, okay?” The lights are less blinding and more of a slight bother now, so he sits up, propping himself up with one arm. Groaning as he runs a hand over his face, he stifles out a yawn—then a noise of surprise as his forehead bumps something.

“Careful!” One of his siblings calls out too late. Suga leans back, rubbing the spot where his head and the lamp abruptly met. He scoots himself backward, out from under the mini chandelier so that his head is out of harm’s way.

He can see the two youngest siblings suppressing their giggles, and Suga playfully glares at them.

Spotting his father’s back, hunched over the couch, he sends a questioning look to Niko. The boy opens his mouth to reply, but Suga cuts him off.

“Dad, what’re you doing over there? And why am I on the dining table?”

The whirls around immediately, putting a finger to his lips. Suga raises an eyebrow, moving to hop off of the table. At the same time, though, his father reaches out his hands, letting out a loud whisper of “don’t get up!”

“Why?” Suga asks, not bothering to lower his voice.

“Dad? Is that Nii-san?” With a start, Suga realizes that the figure his father is hunched over is Hisashi as his head pops out from over the back of the couch.

“Hisashi-chan?” He asks. “Dad, what happened? What’s—”

He is interrupted by a loud sigh from his father. “I—I’m already late for work, oh God, uh, listen, Niko-chan, I need you to take care of your siblings, okay?”

The boy’s chest puffs up immediately, grinning with pride. Suga gives his father an incredulous look, but he’s too busy shoving paperwork into his bag to look back at him.

“Dad—”

“In a rush, kid, sorry—”

“Dad!” The man finally freezes in his haste, turning to look at his son. In the background, Hisashi is whining and Niko is telling him to shut up; Rie is arguing about something with Emiko loudly.

“What?” He asks. He is not annoyed, just immensely  _ tired.  _ He can see it in his father’s eyes, and he feels a pang of guilt for doing so. But still, he wants answers—needs answers.

Suga only looks at him, his eyes asking the question of “what the hell is going on?” for him.

“Long story short, you came home, you passed out—I don’t think you have a concussion, though, so that’s good—your siblings lost it, and Hisashi ran outside after Niko and tripped on Rie’s skateboard.” Seeing the alarmed look on his son’s face, he quickly adds, “He’s not seriously hurt, you just know how overdramatic he is.” Suga nods in understanding, feeling worse by the minute. He’d already made his father even later for work, but to have caused all of this in the first place—it filled Suga’s mouth with an acrid taste, the taste of guilt.

“I’ll take care of everything, Dad,” he reassures. But the man doesn’t seem to be listening, digging his stethoscope out of his bag and draping it around his neck as he nods absently.

“Mhm, you know the drill, bed by 10. I didn’t get a chance to cook, but you’ve got it, right?” Suga nods automatically, though the mention of food makes him want to faint once more. His father rushes out the door, but stops just in front of Suga, frowning.

“And, kid?”

“Yeah?”

“Eat something, will you? You’re skinny as a stick.”

His father is out the door by the time words find their way back into Suga’s mouth.

“...Yeah.”

* * *

Luckily, the extent of Hisashi’s injuries is just a scraped knee, nothing some ointment and a bandage can’t fix. Of course, Hisashi being Hisashi, he pouts and groans about how much it hurts. But Suga is well-versed in his little brother’s antics, telling him that it’s not very  _ mature  _ of him to be whining so much, and the boy immediately stops his crying.

The rest of the night goes relatively well, though that’s not to say that it’s easy. He has to make sure everyone is fed, has done their homework, and brushed their teeth, amongst other things. Niko takes his assignment from their father to “take care of his siblings” very seriously, and while it doesn’t do much to help Suga, it’s endearing to watch Hisashi re-tuck his siblings into bed (fortunately, they know well enough to play along with their younger brother’s antics), his big brother Suga included. Once Hisashi goes back upstairs, Suga waits until he can hear Rie’s snores—a surefire sign that  _ everyone  _ was asleep—and double-checks that Niko has turned off all the lights, save for Emiko’s nightlight, of course.

The thing about his father working night shifts was that Suga had the entire downstairs floor to himself for several hours. If he were a normal teenage boy, he’d probably take the opportunity to watch porn without headphones.

But Suga isn’t a normal teenage boy, he’s… He’s Suga, who has a very specific set of hobbies. Those of which include, amongst other things, standing in front of the mirror and having a breakdown, weighing himself repeatedly, and doing sit-ups until the knobs of his spine were bruised.

Sleep has never come easy to him, and tonight is no different from his typical routine, save for his thought process.

He lies awake on the ground, thinking about Noya’s words despite himself.

_ You’re obviously losing weight. _

What a joke.

_ That— that look. I’ve seen it on my sister. _

He sits up, looking into the full-length mirror hung on his bathroom door. What look? He asks himself, though he knows the answer. Maybe he’s never seen himself in the midst of panic, but he sure of hell knows what it feels like and that it must contort his face in a way that is noticeable to Noya, apparently. And he thought he was being subtle.

_ I can’t lose you too. _

Suga frowns. He wasn’t suicidal, not in the least. But maybe that isn’t what Noya meant. Not just in the physical sense, but in the sense that he’d lost his sister to the monster in her brain long before she actually died. Suddenly, Daichi’s words come to mind.

_ You haven’t been yourself lately. _

Oh.

Was Suga already lost? He looks back into the mirror. The reflection stares back at him with sunken eyes, stringy hair, pallid skin. He looks… tired. It is the only word Suga can think of to describe himself, because frankly, it's’ the only way he can put a name to how he feels. Because that’s all he is—tired.

Tired of not eating, tired of wondering when he will pass out, tired of the number blinking up at him screaming failure, tired of the calculator in his head never  _ shutting the fuck up. _

Tired of fighting with Daichi, tired of tiptoeing around family meals and outings with friends to restaurants. Tired of pretending, yet tired of being himself at the same time.

How much was a little bit of sleep to ask for?

_ The dam is bound to break at some point. With age, erosion, the pressure of the water—and countless other factors, the concrete will give. It will start in cracks where water trickles through, seeping down the jagged lines as harbingers of what’s to come. _

The first tear escapes his eye. Then a second, and a third.

_ Cracks spread like an infection, spreading their arms to disturb the rest of the smooth surface, which threatens to be taken over. Water is now pouring out of the first fissures, seeking refuge with its first drops in the ocean below. It gravitates towards the bigger body of water, knowing where its home lies. _

“What’s the point?” Suga whispers to his ceiling. “You’ll never have what you want.” That second sentence is not directed just at himself, but the part of his brain that counts calories like his life depends on it, the part that sent him running to the club room the night of his birthday. It serves as his biggest motivator and a way of crippling what little self-esteem he has simultaneously. 

Part of him wishes for it to be gone forever, to never have to spare it another moment of his life. This is the part of him that listens to the ache in his stomach, the stabbing pains that come after just over thirty hours.

But the other part of him—the part that wants it to stay, to keep telling him to restrict more and more and push and push. It listens not to his hunger’s howls, but to the floating feeling after the worst of it, the endorphins that come with long bouts of starvation.

And so, like always, Suga is stuck between a rock and a hard place. If he didn’t listen to either of them, he’d never lose weight. He’d be stuck in the physical state that he was in, like a  _ whale.  _ More importantly, he’d lose control, the control he’d fought so hard for.

But the “cut it out and never see it again is” sounds much easier than it is done. And not only that, but it was physically impossible to muster up the courage to do so. It was as if he were hanging on for dear life, teetering between the two in order to keep what little sanity he had left.

_ The meniscus of the dam rises and falls with the tide, rises and falls with the breathing of his chest. It rises, rises, rises, the surface of the water kissing the wall’s top edge. They meet; Suga takes in a breath. _

He breathes out.

The water is still rising. Why is it still rising?

_ Eat something, will you? _

Why is it still rising?

_ You’re not yourself. _

Don’t play dumb, he tells himself. You know why the water hasn’t gone down. This is it. No smiles, no backhanded compliment, no memory of that one good serve can save you here.

His breathing is ragged now; it feels like the air in the room is crushing his chest as he lays on his back. In and out, in and out, he thinks. But it’s no use. There is no in or out, just will the dam break, or will it not?

The way the water keeps him waiting with bated breath is cruel, he thinks.

_ The web of lines in the cement spread farther, beginning to encompass the entirety of the surface. And Suga hopes they are just that—cracks on the surface, superficial marks that mean nothing. But that is just a pipe dream fantasy, one that he can’t bother to chase because now he is standing, knee-deep in the waters, with his body pressed against the wall in hopes of keeping it from falling apart. _

_ His figure is tiny against the backdrop of patchwork cement; he almost looks like one of the quilt patches amongst the smiles and bandaids and saved childhood memories. _

But he knows it is no use.

_ Just give in,  _ the waters coo.  _ You know you want to. _

The tears fall in earnest now, and it feels so, so good to let it out, but so, so bad to be aware of his own pathetic states, curled up in a fetal position on his bedroom floor. He doesn’t know when he moved, but for now all he need to focus on are keeping his sobs muffled. He tries telling himself that no one will hear him, not with the door closed and now when all of his siblings are upstairs, but it is the shame rather than precaution that mutes his cries.

_ Water has escaped through the cracks; the top of it stops rising, slowly falling away from the lip of the dam. Now that the best has been sated just enough, it no longer poses the threat of coming crashing down. Suga steps away from it cautiously, watching the last streams die down to droplets of water, which race each other down the surface of the cement. _

After what feels like several hours but could have been a minute, he can breathe again. It still feels as if something is weighted down onto his sternum, but now the weight offers slight reprieve when he inhales. Chest tight and hands shaking (when did that start?) he sits up, rubbing at his eyes.

The clock says that it’s around 10:30; though he doesn’t know when his stupid breakdown started, that means he could’ve been here anywhere from an hour to thirty minutes. Not that it mattered, anyway. He’d done his homework during lunch and in between classes, and it wasn’t like he’d be able to sleep if he tried.

Still, he may as well go about his nightly routine. He rises, standing on shaky legs to walk over to the bathroom. The cold of the tile meets his bare feet; he suppresses a shiver. He doesn’t remember when everything started feeling like that—cold. No, not in the metaphorical sense, but the physical sensation of chills running through his body at any given moment, the need for extra layers and blankets in the middle of June.

He’s running his toothbrush under the faucet when it hits—the sharp, stab-like pain in his abdomen. He hand falters, grasping the ledge of the counter as he doubles over slightly.

_ Fuck. _

He’d forgotten about these. A mix of emotions floods him—accomplishment, disappointment, anger, satisfaction. The disappointment and anger come from having let something like hunger pangs slip his mind, and the satisfaction is the slightly sweet aftertaste, the  _ I did it. _

Suga had done it. Fasted for long enough that his body had now begun to demand food with more urgency. Finally, finally, he’d held out long enough, because that means he was doing this right—

When the next one comes, he physically lets out a hiss of pain. The feeling was one he’d never get used to no matter how many times it happened. Granted, he’d only experienced them a handful of times since he’d never been able to fast this long before—what was it, four days now?

Squeezing his eyes shut, he sets down his toothbrush, gripping the edge of the sink with both hands, bending himself in half, letting his head hang down as the pain passes. After sixteen (and a half) long and steady breaths, the pain in his stomach subsides to a dull ache, the kind that he’s used to ignoring.

Righting himself slowly, he goes about his usual business—brushing his teeth, washing his face, running a comb haphazardly through his hair. He changes into the nearest t-shirt and clean pair of boxers, then climbs into bed.

Tonight there is a full moon, bright enough so that it illuminates the surrounding clouds in its silver glow, casting light through his open blinds. He turns his head to the side, watching the shadows of tree branches and the occasional bird move across the rectangles of light. He knows shutting his eyes will be a fruitless endeavor, so he counts the number of leaves on that one branch— Ah, it moved again.

Unsurprisingly, sleep does not come despite his exhaustion. What does, however, is another round of torment, which leaves Suga with his arms curled around his stomach, knees tucked up to his chest and face buried into his pillow to muffle his groans. He doesn’t have a concept of time with the way his stomach is taking up the forefront of his brain, the only concern he can bother to have right now—the call for something, anything in his body, just so that he doesn’t pass out.

And it’s ironic because Suga is sure he does that several times, falling into unconsciousness until his body wakes him once more with its cry for calories. At this rate, he’d never be able to sleep.

Sighing loudly in one of the rare moments that his stomach lets him breathe without feeling like dying, he rolls over onto his back. He tries to distract himself by counting the number of star-shaped outlines there are on his ceiling, leftover from when he’d tacked glow-in-the-dark stickers onto the drywall when he was seven. He remembers peeling them off (with the help of his dad) the day before middle school, declaring that he was going to “grow up” starting from then on.

The corners of his mouth quirk up in a self-deprecating laugh. If only he could see himself now.

And fuck, there it is again. He’d never be able to fall asleep, not unless—

No.

He banishes the thought immediately. He was doing so well.  _ You don’t know that,  _ the voice in his head says. It demands to see a decrease in numbers, an extra rib poking out from under his skin. It wants cold, concrete evidence as testament to his control over his life. Again, Suga has the urge to laugh. If anything, that stupid part of his brain had control over  _ him _ .

It is nearly three in the morning and Suga is thinking about food once again. He lets himself dream of eating those strawberries in the fridge, putting those frozen dumplings into a pot of boiling water and devouring them with a bowl of noodles. He’s only allowed to do so because he lies here in bed, safe from the kitchen, where he may bring all of his hard work crashing down.

_ A sip of water won’t hurt. _

The thought comes from the selfish nature of himself. Water would get his stupid insides to shut up, he thinks. Water would be fine, then. Besides, water on an empty stomach was possibly the most euphoric experience in existence—why hadn’t he considered it sooner?

Standing as fast as he can, head spinning but his intent clear, he pads his way into the kitchen, only needing to grip his bedroom doorway once for support. When he makes it into the kitchen, he checks for his Niko and Hisashi, who both have a habit of coming downstairs for midnight snacks. Relieved at the absence of his younger brothers, he opens the fridge slowly, as to not make any noise, and takes a bottle of water. He winces when the plastic of the cap cracks as he breaks the seal, sounding ten times as loud as it would be in the dark and empty kitchen.

He raises the bottle to his lips, and once the first drops slide down his throat, the rest of the bottle is soon following, his throat greedily swallowing down the liquid relief. His stomach growls once more, though less painful than the last time. Without a second thought, he opens the fridge for another, gulping that one down too.

In his haste, his hand knocks into a carton of strawberries—the same ones he’d just been thinking about as he laid awake in bed. He stills, struck with the overwhelming urge to grab them and—

No, he couldn’t. Four days and no calories. Sure, he’d slipped up and drunk water, but if anything, that was just a step in the direction of more restricting.

_ There are approximately four calories in a strawberry. _

There goes the calculator.

_ The average male his height and weight burns— _

One wouldn’t hurt, right? Just four calories, just something solid to hold his traitor of a body over for the night. All he needed was to get to sleep.

Biting his lip, he stares at the fruits for one moment, then two. Then three.

The red hue reflects the fridge light, bright and delicious looking and  _ god _ , just picturing how they would taste, his mouth salivates.

One wouldn’t hurt. If anything, it would help him fast longer, right?

Carefully, he takes the carton off that shelf, fingers wrapping around the sharp edges of the plastic and crinkling slightly under his grip. Every noise sounds like giving up and temptation at the same time.

He washes one strawberry under the sink with the water pressure as low as it can go, then bites into the vibrant, juicy flesh of the fruit.

He chews.

Swallows.

His stomach is quiet for a moment.

Suga would be lying if he said he didn’t regret it, but not nearly as much as he enjoyed it.

And then his hands are moving of their own accord, stuffing another into his mouth, then two more, then three, almost forgetting to pick the leaves off of one as he devours the entire package.

Before he knows it, he’s arm deep into a bag of chips, stuffing his face with the calories his body has so long craved. He’s all but ransacking the fridge, eating dinner’s leftovers, his father’s forgotten bento box, the new package of carrots, and at some point his fingers dip into a tub of butter.

He feels like a starved animal fighting himself for scraps, taking whatever he can get his hands on and inhaling it like his life depends on it. He pays no mind to the calculator in his head or the guilt twisting his guts, because now all he can think about is filling them.

And then the pain in his abdomen returns. Only this time it is different, the kind of pain from bloating, the kind from  _ overeating. _

Overeating.

His hand stills in the sleeve of cookies. He looks around himself, as if just realizing where he is.

Suga sits in the middle of the kitchen floor, a lone island amongst a sea of discarded packaging and various foods. It dawns on him slowly that this was his doing as he looks to his hands, feeling a crumb of something fall from the side of his lips.

He was so, so stupid.

Four days of work, four days of careful control and progress gone, just like that. It was no wonder he was still so fat. Looking down at his figure, he is horrified by the visual confirmation of his actions.

As if it weren’t already bad enough, his belly protrudes even more than usual, making Suga imagine all of the calories on the floor around him now in his stomach. He  _ was  _ the whale that he thought he was. Everyone had been lying all along, saying he was “underweight” and “skinny” and “needed to eat something.”

And it is now that Suga realizes the dam has broken. He was a fool to think that he’d averted one crisis; he’d turned a blind eye to it for just a second and now he was drowning the waters that once resided behind the wall of concrete.

He wants to hurl.

Legs rise, wobbly, and he all but sprints to his bathroom, bile rising in his throat. A combination of disgust with himself and the physical inability of his body to keep down all the food force the chunks of vomit into the toilet bowl, chest heaving as his body rejects the calories.

_ This is what you wanted, isn’t it?  _ He thinks sourly.  _ So why don’t you keep it down now? _

There are tears and snot somewhere in the mix of the vomit, sobs of frustration punctuating his stomach’s clenching.

When the worst of it seems to be over, Suga lets his hands hang onto the ceramic of the seat, dropping his forehead to rest on the cool surface as well. He faintly thinks that this is disgusting, but dismisses the thought with the promise of taking a long (cold) shower soon after. He was a mess, a pathetic heap of bodily fluids and self-pity.

Sighing, he raises a hand to flush the toilet. Fingers grip the handle and pull down, only for his hand to freeze at the sound of a gasp. His head whips to the open doorway, the source of the sound.

And he thought this night couldn’t get any worse.

They stare at each other for a moment, a moment in which Suga considers jumping into the shower and pulling the curtain shut and never coming out.

“...You weren’t answering your calls.”

“I was—” Suga stops to cough, attempting to clear his throat of the burning sensation. His voice is hoarse as he speaks, or at least tries to. “I was asleep.” The excuse is bullshit and they both know it.

“No you weren’t,” Daichi says, stepping forward.

Suga scrambles back reflexively, backing up against the wall of the tub. The other’s brow furrows, hurt and confusion written across his face.

“Why—Why are you here, Daichi?”

“Noya said to check on—”

“Fuck,” he breathes. Of course he did. “Look, I’m fi—”

“No you’re not.”

Suga raises his eyes from the tiles to Daichi’s piercing stare.

_ There has been no time for Suga to rebuild the dam since it last broke just moments ago. _

He must be crying now, because Daichi reaches forward tentatively, then all at once when Suga doesn’t protest, engulfing him into his arms. His chest shakes and his throat lets out uncouth hiccups. At some point he has to shove off Daichi’s arms with what little strength he has left and dry heave into the toilet bowl, nothing but bile and a trickle of water coming up.

All the while, Daichi’s body never loses contact with his. There is always a hand on his back or the nape of his neck or holding his bangs back. He wants to tell Daichi to leave, that he shouldn’t be here in the midst of his disgusting state, but he can’t find it in himself to tell him to go. Besides, it’s as if Daichi doesn’t  _ want  _ to go, which seems absurd to Suga. When he hiccups something resembling Daichi’s name, he is immediately hushed and held tighter.

“I’m here,” he says into his hair.

_ What did I do to deserve you?  _ He wants to demand.  _ Leave, please leave and never come back. _

“I won’t leave you, I’m never leaving you.”

_ You shouldn’t have to deal with me. I’m sorry. _

_ I’m sorry. _

_ I’m so, so sorry. _

Suga feels a wetness on his scalp; he feels the quaking of Daichi’s chest against his. “Don’t apologize, Koushi,” he whispers. Oh.

He doesn’t remember when, but at some point the words had clawed their way from the confines of his sternum and into the air between them.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” The words become a mantra, a fervent prayer to whoever is listening. Suga couldn’t stop apologizing if he tried.

Eventually, his throat grows tired and he runs out of tears. He says his last apology, eyes slipping shut in the comfort of Daichi’s embrace amidst their dirtied surroundings. Just as he gives in to the clutches of sleep, he hears an echo of himself, one that comes from the chest beneath his cheek.

He has never heard so much pain in Daichi’s voice before.

“I’m sorry, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> agh hi hello !! at the time of editing this note, it's been about a month since i posted this chapter. originally, i planned on this story having six chapters rather than this one being the final one. but due to a few different reasons, i will be ending _this_ story here, or at least this part of it. i've decided to split the bigger storyline into a two-part series, this one being the first.
> 
> to everyone who has stuck around, thank you for your support. "count your blessings, sugawara" has come to an (open-ended) close; i hope to write the second part of "when you fall" soon.
> 
> as always, comments and kudos appreciated :) stay safe and healthy.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: hairbleachwhore  
> twt: glutenfreeroach  
> ko-fi: aloeverava


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